Velvet Darkness, Fear to Hide
by Isolith
Summary: The team is led to an abandoned mansion, darkness and a shadow awaiting them. It's a race to survive. Horror/dark-fic. Ensemble-fic.
1. Prologue

**Velvet Darkness, Fear to Hide**

…

_Summary: _The team is led to an abandoned mansion, darkness and a shadow awaiting them. It's a race to survive. Horror/dark-fic. Ensemble-fic.

_A/N:_ Why am I writing horror when I really wanted to write fluff? Btw, I feel should apologize for doing this but I was in a horror-writing mood. It will be an ensemble-piece (with some slight shippy-ness between my fav. couple - take a wild guess). Again, sorry.

This is just the prologue, so that's why it's short. The next part will be up soon. I hope I'll be able to have it all written and posted before the start of season 2; but you never know. This story seems to not end, it just keeps going. Hope you enjoy.

_Warning:_ Character death(s)/Gore/Horror/Dark/Violence. That should sum it up.

…

**PROLOGUE**

…

The deserted landscape gave way to small rolling hills, flat pale trees and a dry atmosphere. The sun high in the sky baking down unforgivingly on the parched earth. They left a trail of whirling dust behind their path, their cars on the dirt road loud and lonely. It was practically in the middle of nowhere.

The three-story mansion cast a long ominous shadow, situated on abandoned grounds, vegetation having been left to fend for itself, wild and unruly. The metal gates permanent open, half off their heavy iron hinges. The mansion loomed the closer they came, dark and high into the sky. It was midday and yet not enough sunlight could take away the shroud of darkness that seemed to hover around this place; a low hanging mist would have been more welcome; grey clouds and light rain would have been more natural.

The mansion looked abandoned inside out, cracked concrete and half-wilted vines sneaking up through the tapestry of the front of the building. Windows were blank and dirty letting in but a very weak slip of faded light. A light that settled like dust motes in the air, heavy and dense – it did not reach into the crooks and nooks of this place.

The walls subdued sound, enclosed you in an atmosphere that might as well have been underground; it was stuffy. A feeling of undergrowth, mold and moist in the air. Not dry but humid in a wet fashion; in such a way it slipped into your lungs and tried to glue itself to your airways. It felt suffocating accompanied with the dark.

Andy Flynn was cautious on his feet, on alert and hesitant in his mind. The bulky feel of the protective vest did not relieve much tension but seemed to enforce it to life instead. Relying on a gut feeling was the epitome of his police work; he had nothing but a bad feeling about this place.

Provenza and the Captain seemed to share his opinion judging by their expressions, glocks steady in their hands – in front of them, a shield to ward off whatever hid in this place. His own gun was likewise drawn.

Briefly Andy wondered how the others were faring, whether they had managed to find a backdoor.

It was hard not to charge ahead and into the darkness when they all knew that Buzz might be trapped in here. The knowledge that a member of their own team was in here relying on their help, somewhere – maybe already dead – maybe still alive.

Little did any of them know that the mansion was far from abandoned. It was an appearance that suited well for the intentions of shadows and sinister endeavors.

Darkness was always imminent in promoting fear.

…


	2. Caught in a web

**Part I; CAUGHT IN A WEB**

…

Provenza tried to gather his thoughts but they were fleeting, far out of his reach.

They had been in a darkened hallway on the ground floor, a small flicker of light from flashlights having shown the way that much he could remember. From then on everything seemed vague in his recollections, hazy.

He tried to hang unto memory though. They had been in a hallway. Then there had been the sound of gunshots, or maybe it had merely been a loud thud-thud sound, and the three of them had run down the hallway, guns steady in front. Flynn had been in the front, Raydor to the side; he had sidled along behind them, wary of watching the rear. Walking backwards at a slight trot, squinting his eyes and trying to look into dark corners. Was that a dark looming body? Was someone watching them?

Suddenly the hallway had become empty with sound and he had looked for Flynn but to no avail – Raydor was likewise gone. Lost in the darkness, how it had happened was beyond him. It did not seem reasonable to him that they could merely disappear like that.

Provenza had listened, hesitant. He had stepped in the direction of shuffling feet – but he had stepped into a dark room. Something hard had come out of the darkness, landing squarely in his abdomen – all air leaving him as he fell to his knees; still a hard relentless grip on his gun, arms shaking with effort.

But there was nothing to see in the darkness; nothing to defend himself against. Provenza did not like the notion of shooting blindly into the darkness, not when he had no clue where the Captain or Flynn was. A sickly sweet aroma had enveloped him and he had instantly felt faint. He had a notion of poison lingering in the air before he fell to the floor in a heap, his fingers no longer around his gun but slack.

There was something in the room; a noise in the background. Like someone breathing through a mask. He blacked out before he could linger on a feeling of fear, blacked out before his eyes could linger on the other slumped bodies in the dark room.

…

Provenza woke up, gagging into a cloth soaked through with something strong, fitful air coming out of his nose as he tried to breathe; it was dark and he might as well have been blindfolded he thought sourly. His head was heavy, moving slowly – his body felt disconnected. He was sitting on a chair, upright, his arms had been dragged behind him, rope chafing around his wrists; something around his ankles as well anchoring him to the legs of the chair. It did not budge when he moved against the restraints; maybe the chair was bolted to the floor.

Provenza tried to tell himself to calm down. If he started hyperventilating he would pass out. He needed to ration his air through his nose, try to get a sense of his surroundings. Outlines slowly came into sharp form – the contrast of a fallen flashlight in the middle of the room.

Provenza blinked again, the room coming more and more into focus.

Computers, monitors, he saw. A dozen of them, flickering, white and black images showing what appeared to be empty hallways and abandoned rooms, a dark foyer, a view of the outside, their two lonely police cars on gravel.

Provenza shifted his head catching slight movement out of the corner of his eyes. In the corner was a pair of goggles, flashing for a brief second when the light of the flashlight caught in the glass of the visor. A shadow swathed in darkness, watching him with arms crossed, one ankle over the other casually.

There was a rag of clothes in the other corner of the room, Provenza noticed. He squinted and tried to focus; a brown-blonde head of hair but beyond that there was nothing to gather about the unmoving bump, bound and restrained. He had a brief thought that it might be Buzz.

Shit.

This was not good.

Where was Flynn? Sanchez? The Captain and Sykes? Tao?

Where the heck were the feds?

Who the hell was this guy?

The shadow moved, the gas mask suddenly visible. He had been drugged, Provenza realized, not feeling any better with this knowledge.

…

Andy woke up with a heavy head, an ache that seemed to tell a story about something having collided with it. He was dizzy.

Where was he? Where was Provenza?

More importantly where the heck was Sharon; she had been right next to him. A little nagging voice told him to call her Captain or Raydor, not Sharon, but there was no one around to listen to his thoughts so he stuck with Sharon.

There was a sickly odor in his nose; one he was not familiar with but one that seemed to belay a feeling of wrongness. His body felt lethargic, he could barely comprehend getting to his knees let alone how his joints were supposed to work.

The floor beneath him was gravelly floorboards; dirty and cold against his palms. His vision swam, little points of color swimming in front of his eyes. There was barely enough light in the room but somehow a little slip seemed to flow in from a boarded window. He could make out his hands when he put them in front of his eyes, full of grime and small little scrapes; his knuckles with torn flesh.

He should have insisted on the wrong feeling; he should have insisted they wait for the feds. Being first responders, knowing Buzz might be in here somewhere; it was a forceful incentive. He wondered how the other group was doing; Sanchez, Tao, Sykes and the Detective from Vice tagging along had gone in search for another entrance at the back of the mansion while Provenza, Sharon and Andy had taken the front entrance.

Andy got to his knees with the help of a wall, leaning heavily on the sturdy foundation; getting up to his feet – stumbling and feeling weak.

His gun and protective vest was gone; there was no sign of it in the dimly lit room. He inched along the wall to the window, tried to pry the wood away and let more light in. It was boarded with long inch nails; his nails broke and splinters caught in flesh – he slipped and raked skin through more wood.

Still faint, he searched his pockets; his phone was gone as well.

He was warm, he noticed; feverous to touch. His shirt humid to wear; soaked through in sweat. He realized it was an incessant feeling of fear that lingered in his body. Someone had drugged him – dragged him away from the others – taken his gun and phone; it was the cause of more than a little nagging fear.

Someone was playing with them.

…

Pain was the first thing that registered in his mind; a sharp throbbing pain that went through him in a tremor when he inhaled, when he exhaled. His fingers felt strangely tingly yet numb – cold and yet hot. Sanchez opened his eyes, his teeth unconsciously clamped down hard as if he could bite the pain away.

It was a groggy feeling that lingered behind his eyes, inside his skull. An ache that was more persistent than Sanchez liked, drowsing. The moment his eyes caught onto his own hand, he wished he had been more thoroughly drugged, he wished he was still unconscious.

His eyes fixated on the nail head, just visible above the back of his hand, disappearing into flesh, the nail hammered down relentlessly into the wooden floor beneath him.

One hand nailed to a wooden floorboard, the other free to roam, free to escape this. It did not comfort him much. Someone had taken his protective vest, his gun – even stolen his shoes, Sanchez noted.

Someone groaned, he quickly swept his eyes up and tried to take in his surroundings. It was an old room, long and narrow, vacant and dirty. Old grey drapes hung before a slim window; maybe they had been white once upon a time. Opposite him, eyes half lidded, was Sykes.

It was the long nail hammered into the back of her hand as well that brought bile up from his stomach.

Her eyes latched onto him when she opened them fully, an almost bleak look. She was still too drugged, Sanchez realized, her pupils uncomprehending and flickering, never staying too long in the same spot.

…

There was something to be said for being hit with the wrong end of a gun, Mike thought. It was a hard collision that made a sound that cracked not only upon the impact of metal against skin but likewise rang inside his skull with the reverberation of pain. It was blinding, white-hot as images flickered before him in flashes, his head throbbing.

Mike had lingered in the background when they had gone through the trapdoor that led to a cellar, Sykes and Sanchez in the front. They had half-run through the underground level, through cellar rooms and corridors. The smell had warned him, the place had set him on edge. The moment he shouted out to Sanchez and Sykes to cover their mouth and nose, however, Detective Mathew Reynolds – the young blonde guy from Vice – had turned on the spot and cracked his gun on Mike's head.

Mike had fallen to his knees, seeing the slumped forms of his colleagues on the floor outside the doorway in the corridor, the detective looming over him inside the little room, a handkerchief across his mouth and nose. Mike's fingers had fumbled at his belt, then on the floor, trying to find his own gun. He came across the familiar metal of his gun on the floor just as a boot kicked the gun away, the sound of it skidding across the concrete floor loud.

The world tilted before his eyes and Mike had trouble comprehending what was happening, his head aflame with pain. The detective mumbled what sounded like an apology while he hoisted Mike up, dragged him to the far corner of the room and brutally shoved his left wrist to an old rusty radiator, cold metal suddenly around his skin and trapping him to one of the old pipes of the radiator.

Mike cursed in among the lingering pain, tried to keep his eyes open. The room was partially dark, barely enough light to make enough of an outline and yet Mike had to squeeze his eyes shut, the brightness of the room too much.

He could hear the heavy exerted breaths Reynolds took, somewhere in the room, lingering. Underneath the loud clanging inside his head Mike thought he heard Reynolds talking to someone, mumbling.

Then a bit of silence, then muttering that sounded like a one-sided conversation between the detective and someone else.

Mike breathed, heavily and painfully, his head feeling unsteady on his shoulders.

The detective's heavy panting came back and Mike opened his eyes just to watch the barrel of his own gun pointed at him.

"I'm sorry," Reynolds said, his eyes seeming half-crazed behind the metal. Mike noticed the earphone around the detective's ears and Mike managed to wonder who Reynolds had been talking to before the trigger was pulled.

…

Sharon woke with the smell of metal raw in her nose, her face pressed hard into a wooden floor – an earthy, almost stale smell combining with the odor of blood. Her body was heavy, limbs did not respond normally and she had trouble breathing – did she even remember how to breathe?

She coughed into the floor, felt particles of grime getting caught in her throat when she inhaled, tasted blood on her lips.

Someone had tied a wet cloth around her eyes, the cloth pressed uncompromisingly into her eyes, into her skin. It was pitch black, the wetness in the blindfold had permeated into her eyes, stinging – it had a foreign smell; a sterile smell.

She wriggled, tried to get up but something was keeping her restrained.

She realized someone had tied cloth around her wrists as well, linking her arms behind her in a definite stronghold.

She had a heavy feeling in her stomach, a dizzying feeling behind her eyes. The cloth around her wrists was tight and dug into skin and bones when she tried to wriggle it loose, taut in the way it held her together.

She tried to sit up, tried to maneuver in some direction but her arms behind her made it hard. It was only when she tried to move her legs she found they were likewise bound, cloth or rope tight around her ankles. Trussed up like goddamn cattle, she thought to herself, too much fear in the notion for her liking. Darkness was full and encompassing around her; she could not see anything – her eyes hurt and her lower lip stung. She blinked but it was futile, the cloth was too tight around her head to allow much.

She tried to remember, tried to bring back the last thing she could remember before waking up here. It eluded her, brief images and sounds, too jumbled to make much sense of. She was too dizzy to focus.

She latched onto the smell again; it was still so raw – so vivid.

She told herself not to panic but it was hard to keep dread at bay, the way it snuck into her heart, the way it rested in her bones and crept up from her stomach to her mouth.

Her breaths came out hurried however much she tried to regulate them; it was hard to remain calm, tied up like she was and blind.

In among her own heavy breaths she thought she heard shuffling sounds, approaching footsteps.

She tried a tentative, half stammered, "hello"

No one answered.

…


	3. Impasse

_Thank you to everyone of you for reading and the wonderful feedback. =)_

**Part II, IMPASSE**

…

Provenza was forced to watch, his mouth dry and his muscles slack from having tried to break free, beads of perspiration clinging to his back, his neck. There was nowhere else to rest his eyes and as much as he loathed to be made to watch in this fashion he could not look away either. Provenza was certain it was the reason the bastard had left him like this, so he was forced to watch his colleagues on the wide screens. As much as he was loath to do what the psychopath had intended it did not deter him from fastening his eyes on the screens and cringing.

The monitors flickered and in-between he caught the image of a room. There was Flynn slumped to the floor while the dark figure with the gas mask shoved him further inside the room none too gently. Provenza watched his buddy, watched as the black-clothed psychopath left with a heavy slap on Flynn's head. Flynn remained unmoving, body slack on the floor.

Provenza's eyes flickered to another screen, helpless to do anything as he watched Mike all alone in a room, struggling with trying to compress his leg, blood gushing. Provenza did not understand, what had happened to detective Reynolds?

The image flickered and this time Provenza followed the black-clothed figure moving along a hallway, a slow stride, arrogant in his pace.

On another screen Provenza found Sanchez and Sykes. He grimaced when he saw their predicament.

…

Andy quickly left the room he had been deposited in, finding nothing to help him in the empty, boarded up place. The door creaked on its hinges when he hesitantly opened it into a hallway, looking both ways. There was nothing distinguishing about the hall, nothing to point him in which direction would be most suitable. The wall tapestry was a dark brown color, something even darker emblazoned along in vertical lines. He noted a lot of other doors, the same half grizzled look in the wood.

Andy took a left turn, following the long hallway till he came to the end, another doorway. It was hard not to be a bit fearful when he had nothing to defend himself with, nothing that would in any way make an impact against whoever had thought out this whole little game. His fingers hesitantly closed around the doorknob and he turned it, the creak when the door opened into the room loud and unwelcome. The room was as empty as the one he had been in, almost the exact replica down to the boarded windows and the dusty floor.

Andy let out a breath, not sure what he had imagined would be on the other side. He closed the door again and walked back the way he had come, looking in through all the doors on his way. Every door led into a room, some small and some bigger. A broom closet and a pantry stocked with old canned food. He kneeled in the pantry, looking through the many boxes and what they contained. There was nothing in them bearing any resemblance to a weapon. He took an old rusty tin can with peas with him however, the bulk nice to have in his hand as he went on. It would hit hard if he flung it, and maybe it was just the reassurance of having something in his hand but it brought a little snip of relief.

Not enough to let go completely of his fear. This place seemed otherworldly, the walls rank and dark, the floor creaking as he stepped on it, the sight of the hallway nearing a corner looming in his sight. He turned around the corner and saw stairs at the end, leading both up and down before the hallway continued on the other side. The banisters bordered in what looked like faint ivory, smoky and faded, the mansion quiet as he approached the stairs, and what would most likely be the fastest exit to the outside.

Then there was the nagging feeling of being watched, a prickly feeling on his back but whenever he turned there was nothing. Shit, he wished they had waited for the feds. Or better yet, he thought darkly, blown a tire out on the deserted dirt road. Anything would have been preferable to this nightmare.

There was yet another door to his left, just before the landing and the stairs.

He decided to have a look; he had looked in through every other door and it would be stupid to overlook this one. The knob turned almost silently and the door flung inwards effortlessly.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

The room was as empty as every other but for the bound form of his Captain on the floor, her red hair leaving behind no doubt.

Before he could take a further step inside the room and help her, a foul cloth came over his mouth and nose, strong arms suddenly around him in a stronghold, forcing the cloth more forcefully into his face. There had been no forewarning sound.

Andy struggled, let go of the tin can in his hand and burrowed his fingers into two burly forearms, trying to break free from the almost suffocating grip the stranger had around his neck.

The cloth smelled sweet, almost nauseously so. It was the same smell, he realized, the one that the perpetrator had used to drug him with earlier. He struggled harder, tried to clamp down his mouth and not breathe. It was too late; he could already feel his strength leaving him, muscles weakening. Like a blanket of sleep steadily enveloping him, removing life from him.

The last thing Andy saw before everything turned black again was Sharon struggling on the ground, trying to slide away from the noise. He noticed she was blindfolded.

…

It was excruciating. Pain like nothing he had met before. Then again, Mike had never had the misfortune of being shot before now. It was searing, the muscles of his right leg torn apart in a gnawing rip; blood so wet and slippery as it gushed.

Methodically he tried to make it stop, the hand not handcuffed to the radiator pressed hard into the wound. However much force he put into it blood kept slipping between his fingers, slick and warm. The detective had left, not answering any of Mike's questions. Nothing made sense to Mike. What had happened? Reynolds had glowing records and the sudden change, why it bothered Mike.

If his femoral artery had been nicked he would bleed out in no time. Twenty minutes had passed on his watch and he had yet to slip into cardiac shock. It was blessedly not his femoral artery then. There was only the wound on the anterior of his thigh, no exit wound.

There was still a lot of blood and Mike knew it would only be a question of time before he did indeed slip into unconsciousness. He was already faint and so tired, the feel of his heart hammering in his chest doing nothing to calm him down. He wondered if the bullet would stay in its position wherever that was, or if it would travel. He feared it would end up in his bloodstream and kill him.

He tried to calm himself down, knew the calmer he was the slower the blood would seep.

Maybe he was lucky, and it was only the tearing of a muscle and fat. Fat bleed quite a lot, he tried to reason.

It started to smell, he found. His own blood, pooled under him, seeping into his jeans and staining his hand.

Lay down, he told himself.

He was able to lie on his back, his leg throbbing at the movement, his left wrist handcuffed to the radiator sore.

Supine he was less faint he realized.

Good, now what to do about the wound.

It felt like less of a flow when he removed his hand. He would be able to tear his shirt then, and not fear bleeding out while he tried to make a bandage out of his clothes.

His bloodied fingers curled around the edge of his shirt under the protective vest, and tried to rip the material to shreds. He wished the shirt was not as sturdy as it was. He wished he had worn one of his old shirts.

God, this would take forever.

…

Funny, there was less blood than he had imagined and yet his fingers slipped everytime he tried to get a grip on the head of the nail. Every little movement brought another tremor of pain along his arm, sometimes so piercing he felt faint and ready to throw up.

There was nothing else to do but to pull it up however, so Sanchez continued. His nails caught on the metal in his hand, tried to rock the nail up. It only hurt even more, the metal moving but a slight inside his hand.

"Shit," he cursed vehemently.

"I'm nearly there," Sykes panted in pain.

"Good Amy," he ground out.

She had fallen asleep and then woken again, her eyes clear. She had been more collected than him, still and unmoving as she surveyed the nail in her own hand.

It was better to get away than linger in the room, and whatever damage the nail had done and whatever damage it would do to get it out, well it was better than being sitting ducks.

"Do you think the others are okay?"

Sanchez looked up at her question, her brows knitted together in concentration as she dug fingers around the nail head. She was faring better than him he saw, able to get a firmer grip on the nail. Her face consorted in pain when she tried to budge it.

"I hope so," he told her, trying to keep his voice reassuring, "This was a planned attack on us. I hesitate to guess what's been planned and what they want to accomplish."

"Well, I'm going to kick the shit out of whoever planned this."

"Oh yeah," he agreed, trying once again to pull his own nail out.

Sykes cried, and he looked up.

Her eyes gleamed, her hand holding up a long rusty nail, her fingers bloodied. She scooted over to him, and her smaller fingers fit more easily around the nail and she tugged it free.

Shit, it hurt.

They cradled their injured hands to their chests, both breathing heavily with a mixture of pain and fear.

Now, they just needed to figure out where the others were. Or maybe they just needed to get out of here and call for backup.

…

Sharon was certain she heard a door opening, even if it made barely a sound. She was certain she heard footsteps and the rustling of clothes. She shied away from the sounds, tried to scoot away on the wooden floor, her hands tied behind her back making it difficult.

She heard a dump sound, as if something heavy had fallen to the floor.

She paused and listened again.

Still footsteps, she tensed when they approached her.

A finger suddenly traced her cheek; she sucked in a breath, flinching.

"Little captain," a voice slithered in a hoarse whisper. It was close to her ear, her hair moving at the breath.

She tensed further, a lump in her throat.

"I'm going to enjoy toying with you."

"Stay away from me," she bit back. Her voice sounded hoarse, it scratched as it went past her parched throat.

There was a small chuckle in reply.

"You stay away from me, goddamn, or I'm going to -"

A hand clamped over her mouth, cutting of her threat, her voice becoming but a muffle.

A big, rough hand – callused and smelling of sweat. Hard against her mouth, cutting off air. She tried to bite but the hand was hard and she could not work her jaws to open.

"I'm going to slit you up," the voice whispered, hard and breathy as another hand stroked along her throat, pressing down on her windpipe.

Still she tried to struggle against the shadow, the big man, but it was futile, the hand moving from her throat and to her hair, pulling the strands painfully till her head followed backwards.

"Stay still, little captain. Move, and I'll slice you into little pieces and send them to everyone you care about," the voice said.

She stilled until she felt the prick of something small sticking her in the neck, the stinging reminding her of the feeling of vaccinations. She struggled again, afraid of what had been in the injection.

"Sweet dreams," the voice said before it disappeared, the hands in her hair and around her mouth disappearing as well.

She lay still, barely able to breathe for fear. Her heart beat rapidly, erratically and almost drowning out the sound of someone moving away from her, something being dragged across floorboards, a door opening and closing.

And then nothing but her own heart, blood rushing in her ears and the sound of her own tentative inhalation loud.

…


	4. Design

_A/N: I was bored so I thought why not post another chapter =)_

**Part III, DESIGN **

…

Provenza watched the Captain struggling against the black-clothed creep, watched as the creep stuck a needle in her neck. He watched Flynn lying motionless just two meters from them. It was insane. He watched the black-clothed man haul Flynn out of the room by an arm, watched his friend dragged around like a doll. He watched the Captain, unmoving in the now empty room. She lay still for a long time; if not for the small noticeable rise and fall of her chest he would have feared she was either unconscious or dead.

After a long while she scooted backwards till she hit the far end of the room, pressed into the wall. He watched her, her legs bending further as she tried to untie the knot around her ankles. It looked awkward, her back arched into a half crescent.

On another screen he watched Flynn being dumped in a room, the black-clothed psychopath pushing at him with a foot, and then heaving out bottles from his black backpack, dumping the contents of a bottle over the still form of his partner. What was it, water? Lighter fluid? Provenza felt sick.

Why was Mike lying on his back, Provenza wondered? So still; was he dead? His shirt was half torn, a slip of cloth in his hand. He squinted, tried to make out whether Mike was breathing.

Provenza wondered where Sanchez and Sykes had disappeared to. He hoped they had gotten out of this rotten place; it would help them all if they had simply left and gone in search for help and the feds. Staying longer in this trap of a building was risky.

Provenza wished Flynn had gotten out as well, he wished his buddy had seen the shadow coming up from behind him and decked the guy in the jaw.

He tried to remember back to before this madness. How it had all begun.

_The Captain strode into the break room, her heels signaling her arrival before her now familiar crown of red hair appeared. Provenza stood with Flynn at the coffee machine, his arms crossed as he stared at the television and the spectacle of a football match._

_Sharon arched her eyebrow when she caught the line of their eyesight._

"_Really," she let out in that characteristic drawl of hers Provenza had come to know as being a humorous commentary and not a haughty insult as he had first thought. _

"_We're on a break. This is the break room, is it not?" Provenza grumbled to the Captain, watching as she poured herself a cup of coffee. Flynn sipped his coffee, eyes attentively on the screen as well. Provenza watched his partner hide a smile behind the cup._

"_Are you bored by paperwork, Lieutenant?" the Captain asked him, her tone a repressed smile now. _

"_Aren't you?"_

_She sighed, leaned back against the counter next to them and followed the match as well._

"_Dreadfully bored," she commented._

_Flynn chuckled and Provenza rolled his eyes._

_They continued to watch the screen, sipping their coffees, each lost in their own contemplations._

_Sanchez struck his head in, "We've got a mysterious package."_

_The Captain arched an eyebrow, Flynn tilted his head. _

"_Well, what is it? Spit it out." Provenza retorted._

"_Don't know. The bomb squad is here, checking it out."_

"_Is it specifically for Major Crimes?" Sharon asked._

"_Yeah, addressed to you ma'am and the rest of us, by name."_

_The Captain's eyes narrowed, Sanchez came further into the room. _

"_I hate it when we get mail," Flynn lamented, "It's always body parts."_

"_Yeah, ruins your sensitive appetite," Provenza smiled at his partner._

_Flynn grimaced._

_The Captain sighed._

…

Mike was not sure how long he had been unconscious, only that he woke up feeling even worse than he thought possible. He was awfully faint, the world spun around him and he felt as if his insides were ready to burst up through his throat. His skin was clammy, a feeling of fever inside his bones.

When he sat up it was even worse. He looked at his torn shirt and the strip of white cloth he had crumbled between his fingers. With the help of little patience and the use of his teeth he managed to bring the strip around his leg, managed to tie a knot that somehow let him tighten the cloth around the gunshot wound on his leg. He vomited in between tightening the knot, the smell in a little pool next to him, mixing with the rank smell already in the room.

Everything was stained with his blood, the smell no longer foreign but like a bittersweet friend, the slick liquid no longer warm but cold and uncomfortable.

Mike wondered how everything had turned out like this. The arrival of the mysterious package that was where it had begun.

_Mike stood outside their murder room watching the bomb squad tinkering with the package on Provenza's desk and moving their detectors across it. He was not supposed to be this close but they had forced him to leave his computer in the middle of a cold case research and he was desperate to get back to it. Sykes stood further back in the corridor, hesitant._

"_Are you sure we're allowed this close?" she asked him._

_Sanchez answered for him, "It's most likely just body parts. No one bothers sending us bombs anymore."_

_Mike looked back, saw the Captain, Flynn and Provenza following._

"_Or maybe it's a secret admirer," Provenza said in his sour voice._

"_To all of us?" Mike sounded doubtful, even though he knew Provenza was merely being his sarcastic self._

"_It's from Hollywood division," Flynn grinned in his cheeky way, "they are so enamored with our little team."_

_Sykes blushed; a month ago they had investigated a murder/suicide with Hollywood division and one of the young detectives had been flirting nonstop with Amy._

"_Maybe it's from traffic," the Captain joined in, her face giving nothing away, "seeing how many unpaid tickets and complaints they keep sending me memos on."_

_All eyes zeroed in on her._

"_Whaddaya mean?" Flynn asked._

_Her lips curled, "Let's just say certain senior members in this squad keep running red lights and parking in obscure places, off duty."_

_Her eyes bored into the back of Provenza._

_Flynn laughed, "Ha, you hear that old man; you're on traffic's naughty list."_

"_Oh shut up Flynn, I'm sure the Captain meant you and that old wreck you call a car."_

_Flynn soured, opened his mouth and was about to no doubt retort back in a grumpy voice when the door into their squadroom opened and a suited guy took off his helmet, "All clear folks, nothing volatile in your mysterious package."_

"_What about plagues?" Mike asked, and the guy just shrugged it off with a lazy smile._

_The team filed back into the squadroom, eager to see what was in the package. _

…

His hand ached, jabbed and tingled in an uncomfortable way; Sanchez could tell by Sykes's gritted teeth that her wound was bothering her as well. They had swept their hands in little torn strips from his own shirt, and already a little pinpoint of blood had bleed through. A little visible imprint on the pale cloth around their hands, on the palm and on the back.

Sanchez wished he knew more about wounds. Mike would know what to do. Sanchez only knew what to do with gunshots wounds, how to compress and then wait for an ambulance. He knew enough to be a bit suspicious of the nails they had pulled out; long and narrow but rusty, uneven. Old and used nails. Sanchez briefly wondered about infection but it did not linger long in his mind; he was more occupied by the pain and by the desire to be out of here as quickly as possible – more vividly aware of making sure Sykes got out of here. They wanted to find the others but it would be better to get out, and then get help. The mansion was big and had an underground cellar that ran like funnels. They would end up getting lost or they would end up meeting another wave of sedatives in the air.

Instead they crept along a small hallway, looked out into the foyer from the ground floor, the wide staircase in the middle of the oval room leading upstairs, silent.

Sykes looked back to him, and he briefly patted her shoulder before they moved towards the front doors, cautious of their periphery.

Sanchez wondered how everything had become this messed up.

"_Just open it Julio," Provenza told him as the team gathered around the square brown package._

_Sanchez took out his knife and sliced it through, neatly opening the little box up. He took aside one flap and looked inside, curious and a bit apprehensive. _

"_It's not body parts," he told his team members._

_Provenza grinned and Flynn sighed reaching for his wallet and heaving out twenty dollars. Sanchez smiled as he watched Flynn grudgingly put the money into Provenza's outstretched hand._

_The Captain ignored the two old men and came closer, peering into the open box as well._

"_Damn," she said, earning the attention of the two older lieutenants who had been in the middle of one of their little gruff exchanges of insults. They stepped forward as well and looked inside._

"_That's not good," Sykes said when she saw the contents._

"_Really, you think so sergeant obvious," Provenza grumbled at her but his eyes were on the contents as well._

_Sanchez pulled out the top pictures, looking closer at a black and white picture of the whole division taken from a distance, leaving McGee's. "This would have been taken the night we celebrated the Jensen's case," he commented to the others as he showed the picture around. They nodded, almost absently. _

_The Captain pulled out a pile of pictures as well, her brows knitting together; close-ups of herself, leaving work, at home, - she held one up, her eyes narrowed, "This is old, maybe from a year back." Flynn looked over her shoulder, somber but then he smiled, "What _are_ you wearing?"_

_The Captain swiped at his shoulder with a hand and he shut up, a smile lingering briefly on his lips. _

"_There are pictures of all of us," Sykes said, leafing through the stack of black and white pictures. _

"_This is creepy," Mike said, looking at one of himself._

_Sanchez took away the last pictures in the box and almost wishes he had not when he found his eyes fixated to the bottom and a little container._

_He held the small vial up for the others to see, "Looks like blood." _

…

Andy woke up again, as disoriented as the last time. This time however it felt even more wrong; his clothes were soaked through with something that felt like water but smelt like whiskey – and Sharon was nowhere in sight. Sharon was back in the room at the end of the hallway near the staircase, tied up. The image of her was etched into the back of his eyes, hurtful. He imagined it would be worse to wake up tied and unable to move – blindfolded and in the dark. He shuddered. He would be full of fear.

He was riddled with fear, he amended, and a little knot of anger.

He looked around; he was back in the same room where he woke up the last time, the same little boarded window and the same little slip of light.

Only there were five empty bottles of whiskey on the floor; he guessed the content was on him. The smell was nauseating – even more so since he had not been this close to it in over two decades now.

It was a smell full of broken promises and regret.

It made him gag; dry heave upon the floor, the smell too intense as it soaked further into him, into clothes, into his skin.

Foremost in his mind he catalogued that someone had done their homework relentlessly; he wondered who wanted to hurt them all this bad. He wished he had been able to overpower the stranger, wished he did not have the lingering scent of that awful sterile sedative in his nose, burning and stinging, the skin around his nose and mouth felt raw. He wished the stench of whiskey was not bringing back all the self-loathing he had used so much time and energy to overcome. He wished he had been able to untie Sharon, help her.

He staggered to his feet, the world tilting around him.

_Flynn pointed at the black board, having written the name the blood in the vial belonged to, "Name's Damien Reynolds, he is seven. He disappeared three weeks ago."_

_The Captain came up and took a stand beside him, her face impassive as she looked at the blackboard, the picture of a blond smiling Damien Reynolds looking back at them._

_He heard the small sigh leave her lips._

"_Damien was reported missing by his parents when they found him gone from his bed coming to wake him up," Andy told her, "There's nothing conclusive at all in the case. Nothing to suggest foul play or that the parents had anything to do with it. No ransom notes, nothing to suggest that someone took him."_

"_Vanished into thin air," she said, almost like a thought that was not meant to be said out aloud._

"_Yeah," he agreed. He hated these cases; where nothing they did would help, where there was nothing to go from, no leads, no hunches – just a disappearance that was hard to investigate let alone stop ruminating about._

"_Why would someone send us the blood from a missing child's case? Along with pictures of us? I have a hard time making the connection between the two." Andy wondered out aloud, his eyes on the picture of the boy._

"_Could be someone who's upset the police never closed the case or found Damien, Lieutenant," Sharon thought out, "someone grieving and wanting someone to take the blame. Or,"_

_He nodded._

"_It could be whoever took Damien in the first place," she continued._

"_Why would a hypothetical perpetrator want attention after nearly a month, why attention when it's practically a perfect crime? That's a long period of silence, especially considering we have nothing to tie anyone into this. And the connection to Major Crimes? We were not anywhere near this case three weeks ago; it was handled by the local division."_

"_Why a fixation on Major Crimes? I don't know, maybe it's because we weren't involved at the time. That could be a reason to fixate on us, blame us for not taking the case."_

"_Maybe," he grimaced, "I have a bad feeling about this. Those pictures, someone's been surveying us for some time now."_

"_It gives me the creeps, to tell you the truth."_

_He smiled briefly at her. Her eyes found his and they shared a brief little look of camaraderie._

_Andy looked down at his notes, "There's a detective in Vice, the kids uncle."_

_Sharon nodded._

"_Detective Mathew Reynolds," he elaborated._

_She hummed, her eyes on the board, one hand resting on the curve of her waist, "Let's go have a talk with him, shall we Lieutenant."_

_Andy nodded and followed her. _

…

Sharon felt drunk.

She was walking slowly forward, sideways, inching along with her back to a wall. Her arms tied behind her were starting to hurt but she could flex her fingers and feel along the pattern of walls, stumbling every now and then, afraid of what she would meet, darkness encompassing. She had finally managed to undo the knot around her ankles; now she needed to get as far away from this hellhole as possible. Even if it seemed impossible with the blindfold and her hands tied, even when she was not sure whether she was walking or flying, whether she was awake or asleep. She tried not to linger too much on it.

Her lower lip was split; she could taste the caked blood everytime she breathed. There was an awful smell around her, musty and rank, now accompanied by the grime of the floor, the peeled paint of walls. Her head was heavy with fear; she needed to get away – far away; before something came out of the darkness and swallowed her. Sometimes she thought she could hear something breathing, something moving in on her, a sound of something growling low in a throat. It felt inhuman to her.

Her own breaths sounded too heavy in the darkness but try as she might she could not douse them. Adrenaline was coursing through her and her lungs were painful in her chest; heaving with effort, trying to expel the notion of fear.

She came to a door, a more clear air with room to breathe in when she snuck through the doorway. She wondered where everyone else was and how they were faring; for their sake she hoped they had not been drugged, hoped they had managed to escape somehow.

_Sharon looked up when she heard her office door opening; she gave a tight smile when Flynn came in, two steaming coffee cups in his hands._

_He sat down opposite her, and she took the proffered beverage with a tired sigh._

_They had been working through most of the day and had yet to find anything that brought them closer to the mysterious package and the missing boy. Provenza had reached the point of no return and had turned to his characteristic tired grumbling – she had sent him to annoy the local division who had been on the case to begin with. Mike was silent; typing away on computers and Sanchez had gone down to the basement to look through old case files with Sykes, looking to find similarities to past crimes. Detective Reynolds was pacing their murder room, the young guy anxious and looking flustered. Sharon had taken to looking through the bank accounts of the close family and friends to Damien Reynolds, debit cards and whatnots, records of school teachers and janitors, class mates and everyone they could think of checking. _

"_You alright, Capt'n?" _

_She cracked a small smile, wasn't she supposed to ask him that? He had been wearing a darker and darker expression as the day had moved along at a snail pace going absolutely nowhere._

_He seemed to take her silence as an answer, reaching over and looking through one of the many folders she had yet to look through. She sipped her coffee and tried to figure out what it meant when he came bearing coffee and that look in his eyes._

"_I hate it when it's kids," he told her, his eyes on her for a brief second before he looked down to the file on his lap again. She nodded, even if he could not see it._

"_This, it's so different from fid. Mostly I don't notice, it doesn't seem that different on the surface. I used to work in Vice before I transferred to I.A." she commented, looking down at her own files, "I've met plenty of psychopaths in I.A. and in my line of work, so it's not that that bothers me. But kids, I've never had to deal with kids in this way."_

"_It never gets easier but you'll manage."_

"_I will?" it came out like a question._

_He nodded, "We'll figure it out," he pointed at the folders on her desk, "This case's not yet a cold case and there's bound to be something. The vial of blood, well that's a start. It's a lead, even after all this time. It's better than nothing. We will find something."_

"_I like it when you're this optimistic, Lieutenant," she told him around a smile._

_He smiled back, "One of us gotta be."_

…


	5. Hide and Seek

**Part IV,** **HIDE AND SEEK**

…

Provenza watched the computer screens, caught between strange curiosity and deep-rooted fear. His heart leapt continuously whenever he caught glimpses of his team members, his body heavy and yet almost light with apprehension, a dizzying feeling under his skull.

The black-clothed psychopath came and went, dark obscure eyes behind goggles always watching Provenza, the slight curl of lips widening with what appeared to be amusement. The rope around his wrists and around his ankles would not budge one inch, the cloth only seemed to get tighter the more he strained against his bonds.

Provenza tried to catalogue the guy, tried to hang unto some form of sanity as he let his eyes roam the figure of the psychopath. Large and bulky, piercing blue eyes he noticed when the mask came off. Wide lips that seemed to take up most of the sunburned face, large arms where muscles slithered underneath skin like snakes.

Provenza was not sure he liked the fact that the creep felt comfortable with showing his face; it felt ominous to him. Yet he could not keep his eyes away; he needed to know what this bastard looked like.

"Who do you like the least, Lieutenant?" the creep surprised him, the voice remarkably normal, nothing distinctive in it. The bastard had not spoken before; the voice sounded almost eerily foreign in the small room as if sound did not belong here. "As I see it, you've got no love for the red-head."

Provenza protested angrily, yelling against the damp cloth in his mouth. It came out like a mumble and the bastard laughed, white teeth seeming just as ominous as everything else.

"Oh, maybe you like your Captain despite it all, huh?" the blue eyes looked sinister under the blond hair, the ridge of eyebrows quirking.

"Don't worry old man; you're going to be last. I think you'll enjoy it. You have a marvelous view here. You can sit nice and comfortable, watch your little birds flutter and flutter as I tighten a noose around their necks, huh. My little present to you. I'll save the best for last; you."

The bastard laughed, only it sounded nothing like mirth, "You'll get what you deserve, old man."

Provenza mumbled against the cloth again, his eyes narrowed.

"You'll understand in time, don't you worry. You'll understand."

The mask came on again, and the bastard was once again a shadow, slithering out the door and closing it behind him.

Provenza was left in the room, left with a bad taste in his mouth and a tightening in his throat.

…

The sun was merciless in its stare when they stumbled outside, the dry air a wall of heat that hit him with force, his head almost screaming in protest at the sudden blinding light. Sanchez squinted his eyes and threw up a hand for cover. He was dizzy and nauseous, a rank feeling inside his body that made him unsure of his footing. The world tilted around in a tumble that told him it would most likely only be a matter of time before he crumbled to the ground, exhausted and crippled from whatever poison the creep inside the mansion had used to sedate them with.

Sykes followed him, her injured hand cradled against her stomach, her eyebrows knitted together in pain.

They stumbled down the steps, legs feeling like jelly beneath them, wobbling on the large stone steps. They reached gravel, the sound under their feet sounding almost like a welcome reprieve.

The two cars they had arrived in looked like two lost souls next to each other on the gravel, an almost eerie look. Sanchez immediately noticed the flat tires, the sunken image that made the cars instantly stand out; he noticed the open doors and the ripped seats inside.

Sykes stuck her head in one car while he took a look at the radio in the other car; everything was dead, either smashed to pieces or doused in the rough smell of gasoline. It was no use to them.

"Julio," Sykes sighed, her voice sounding almost on the edge of despair.

"We're better off on foot, come on," he told her, reaching for her uninjured hand to pull her along. Her hand, warm and sweaty, slipped into his and he squeezed back.

They moved towards the gates, both grimacing at the pain and the dry heat.

"_Julio", Sykes smiled her eyes alight in that open warm way he had come to take for granted. _

_Sanchez shrugged, "It's no big deal."_

_It was a big deal apparently for she smiled even wider, brown eyes a fiery fire. _

_Sanchez knew how it was to be the rookie, knew all the troubles that came with being a newcomer to a group that was tight-knit. Amy was brilliant at her job; she was as enthusiastic as she was a bit naive. But she was no green rookie; she had been deployed and knew her way around guns. Sanchez was glad to finally have a partner that was as likely to run as fast as him. It was nice to have someone to share the duties of running after suspects with. She would learn the ropes fast. _

_She was still pretty bruised, he noticed, the dark blossoms on her skin looking grievous and painful. Her jaw ached he knew, and her speech was still a bit raspy. _

_She had finally been released from the hospital, the black track suit looking more comfortable than the white pristine of a hospital gown. _

_Sanchez knew how lonely you got after being released from the hospital after an injury, and he knew how weird it felt not being able to go back to work. How strange it was to be cooped up at home all alone with your many thoughts. He remembered the many times he had been roughened up and how many hours he had spent feeling nervous about the psych evaluation, felt nervous about not being allowed back to his team. That someone would declare him unfit and unstable. _

"_I thought you might need some provisions," he told her; referring to the six packs in his hand. _

_She invited him inside, and he went along, both of them drinking the beer he had brought. He told her a few tales from when he had been a rookie, and she seemed to relax a bit and he knew then that she had been lonely and feeling under strain. _

The shot rang out clear, a ruckus amongst the otherwise silent grounds.

Sanchez looked frantically at Sykes. She seemed unharmed but for the wide eyes that looked at him with frenzy.

A second later and he correlated the sound of the gunshot with the searing pain in his shoulder, knew the wet feel that ran down his chest could only be his own blood.

Sykes hand was clamped around his and he tried to tell her to let go, to simply run but he could only groan when he opened his mouth, his legs losing their stability under him as he fell to his knees. His hand shot out to take the impact of the fall and he only realized too late that the sharp jab that shot through him when his injured hand came into contact with the ground made him slump in further pain.

Another shot rang out.

…

Andy broke two of the empty whiskey bottles into the floor, kept a hold of the neck and held the sharp ends in front of him. However much the stench of alcohol had halfway dried into his clothes and made them uncomfortable to wear, stiff yet wet when he moved, it was in some ways a godsend. Glass was a good weapon. The sharp shards wielded in his hands felt secure, and so he hung unto them with vehemence, gritted his teeth and otherwise tried to ignore the smell.

He kept seeing Sharon bound and blindfolded on the floor, the image flashing before his eyes with pain in his chest he did not understand. Only, he knew he needed to find her – and the others.

This time Andy stuck his head out of the doorway with more hesitation and paranoia than the last time, looking down the narrow dark hallway and finding it empty in both directions. He slipped out and sneaked down the right side, heading for the curved end and the stairways and the room he had last seen her in.

He kept looking over his shoulder, afraid someone would surprise him again. He rounded the corner of the hallway and stopped, immense relief suddenly flooding him.

"Sharon," he whispered, noticing she stopped her advancement at his voice, her back to the wall as she was creeping along towards the end of the hallway and the stairs.

The light was faint but he clearly saw the dried blood smeared on her lips and down her chin when she turned her head in his direction, her red hair looking wild in the array around her head, tumbling past shoulders.

"Andy?" she whispered back, hesitant and her body tense, coiled as if ready to either flee or fight.

Andy quickly rushed to her side, "Yeah, it's me."

"Oh god, please get me out of this blindfold."

Andy quickly let go of the half bottles, resting them on the floor by his feet before he found the knot of her blindfold at the back of her head. The knot was tricky and he fumbled with it for a long time. When it finally came loose she blinked against the light however sparse it was, and he noticed the red rims around her eyes. Her eyes found his, and he had trouble with the look, the dilated pupils and somewhat distracted look.

He slipped the sharp end of one broken bottle against the cloth around her wrists, nausea when he noticed the red marks on her pale skin, raw where the rough cloth had slipped against skin till it broke.

She breathed steadily, rubbing her wrists with her hands. He slid a thumb along her cracked lower lip, anger blazing inside him at the sight of the faint bruise on her chin.

"Thank you. I thought I would surely stumble and break a leg," her eyes averted from his, "Or something worse. Have you seen any of the others?"

He brushed lint of her shoulders, then traced down her arm and rested a hand on her elbow, the sense of touching her calming him down. "No. I keep getting drugged and I wake up in the goddamn same room. Are you alright?"

She hummed noncommittally.

"You're soaked through," she commented, her eyes on his chest.

"Someone poured whiskey over me when I was unconscious."

She nodded, her eyes now looking at something behind his shoulders, a distant look. He wondered if she had been hit on the head but he could not see any lump. Maybe she was still woozy from whatever the creep had used to sedate them with.

"Are you hurt?" his hands traced up her arms again as he looked her over, afraid the bastard had done something else to her.

She shook her head, and he gave her one of the broken bottles, the other safely in his left hand, his right on the small of her back.

"Shit, I'm glad I found you."

"Me too, Andy."

They looked in both directions, loath to stay in one place and yet loath to move.

"I heard gunshots before," Sharon told him, her eyes a shade he had never seen before, light in a fashion that had nothing to with mirth. A mix between fear and apprehension, only it was a rare thing to notice fear in her eyes.

"Let's move, get out of here," he nudged her in the direction of the stairs and they both moved, "If anything happens, you just run, okay." He told her, "Get out of here."

Her hand slipped into his, the one not holding the broken bottle, "I'm not about to abandon you here," she retorted.

"Better one of us gets away than we both suffer."

"_You can run," Andy grinned at Sharon foolishly, his eyes on her torn stockings and the bloodied knee._

_She gave him a wry smile, "Faster than you, I might add."_

"_Ah, I'm not so sure about that."_

_Provenza did not run, Sykes had been at the other end of the city with Mike surveying the suspect's house and Sanchez was sick with the flu and no good use to anyone. Andy had quite by accident found their suspect, and it had only been Sharon and him, the coffee store and the seven caffeine beverages they'd just bought. Well, that and Provenza who loudly proclaimed that he did not run. _

_It had been a flicker of a second where Andy had recognized the dirtbag and his eyes must have given him away for no sooner had the guy pushed people to the ground and taken off on foot._

_Sharon was quick, everything in her hands discarded along with her precious heels. He followed along and where she kept on the suspect he took a right turn, knowing this neighborhood and right enough he came right out in front of the panting guy, cutting off his exit. The guy turned around, most likely thinking he would have better luck with the lady chasing him down. Sharon catapulted into him and they both ended up on the grey concrete, Andy soon following. _

_The guy was quickly put in handcuffs, Andy keeping the guy in a tight hold. The little creep kept whining about this and that, his voice a high snivel as he complained about brute force and whatnot. _

_Andy had stuck his hand out and helped Sharon to her feet, the stockings forever ruined by running on asphalt, her knee having stuck the ground in the tumble. _

_Sharon fingered the torn cloth, a finger in the hole around her torn up knee, the size of a tennis ball._

"_You alright?" he asked one hand on their suspect. He watched her bend and dust off the small grounded gravel on her legs, brushing past the skin around her knee._

"_Yes," she breathed, her eyes vividly on him, "Remind me to start running again. I've been slacking off lately."_

"_You looked mighty fine from my viewpoint," he retorted, trying to keep his voice from laughter._

_She rolled her eyes, "Oh, shush." _

_He grinned in reply, noting that the flesh was fortunately only lightly scraped on her knee. They walked back to their own car, the suspect in tow and thankfully quiet now. Sharon was already on the phone, talking to Sykes and Mike. They would all meet back at headquarters then. _

_They met Provenza back at the coffee shop, sipping on his own coffee and holding up the black heels, "You missing something, Capt'n?" _

…

Mike breathed heavily, his left wrist sore and red from trying to get it free of the handcuff. Somewhere in the back of his mind he catalogued that it was an impossible feat to actually slip his hand out from the metal around his wrist but it was a faint notion. He was more concerned with the fact that his leg felt curiously numb until he moved it and it then would sting with a curious sharpness, concerned with the fact that he had heard gunshots and shouts a mere minute ago.

In his daze he became frantic, fear overriding and demanding he try to get free. He had no use of his hand if he was dead, he reasoned, as he tried yet again to yank out his hand from the cold, chafing shackle. Metal slid against skin, dug into the bones of his wrist and yet he clamped his teeth together and ignored it.

His breaths came out in a ragged rhythm now, laced with urgency and an undertone of pain.

Mike was so intensely focused on his goal that he almost did not hear the sound of heavy footsteps. The door into the cellar room opened with a clang, and in the doorway stood the detective. His eyes were glazed and swept across the room unseeing, not lingering on Mike but seeming to see through him.

The detective was mumbling, beads of sweat running down his neck, on his forehead as his eyes flickered around the room, never landing on any object long enough for him to seem coherent. Reynolds stepped into the room, his arms hanging limply by his side, one hand gripping around what looked like Mike's gun, the metal gleaming.

"He told me Damien was here," Reynolds told a wall, his voice sounding far away, his legs seeming to almost shake with exertion. "He told me. He promised."

Mike had trouble understanding, his mind distraught.' Damien', the name rang in his mind with something, as if it was important. He knew the name but he could not put his finger on it, the relevance of everything slipping from his grasp like water through a sieve, leaving nothing behind but confusion.

"I don't understand, you have to explain it to me detective." Mike croaked to the detective, his voice sounding strained. Unwittingly Mike moved towards the detective, momentarily forgetting he was chained to the radiator, forgetting that he had been shot. A wave of nausea swept through him and for a moment Reynolds became a distorted figure, hovering and fragmented. Mike blinked and the detective came into focus again.

"Damien, he was here. He should have been here. I did what he told me to and he promised he would give me Damien." Reynolds stumbled into a wall, slid down till he slumped on the floor, his eyes on Mike now, wide and large and a film of confusion covering the blue irises, "I just wanted to find him, safe. He's only seven. I'm sorry; I only wanted to find him."

"Mathew," Mike said his voice low and a rattle, "Who is Damien? Who told you he was here?"

The detective did not seem to hear him, looking into the air as if lost. The gun shook in his hands.

Mike closed his eyes and averted his face when he saw Reynolds lift his hand, the intention of that movement not lost on him.

The shot surprised him nonetheless and he jumped, fright tasting like bile in his mouth.

_Buzz was tinkering with wires under the desk, every once in a while his voice would rise but the curse sounded far from profanity to Mike. Buzz rarely cursed, a fact Mike found both amusing and odd. _

"_You alright, Buzz?" Mike asked._

"_Oh yes, just this tangle of wires and the computer screen keeps freezing."_

_Mike looked under the desk, Buzz's golden brown mob of hair obscuring his face._

"_What did Provenza do now?" _

_It was Provenza's desk and his computer Buzz was tinkering with, the old lieutenant nowhere in sight. _

"_Who knows," Buzz sighed, "He has a knack for ruining anything with a wire attached to it."_

_Mike laughed; it was true. Provenza was as deft at computers as he was at running after suspects._

"_It could be worse," Mike assured Buzz, looking at the black computer screen and the keyboard that lay slung face down on the far side of the desk – mostly likely slung by Provenza in disparagement._

"_How so?" Buzz stuck his head up, turned the computer on and the screen flickered, a blur of distorted colors._

"_Last time Flynn had trouble with his computer he gave it a good whack. Repeatedly."_

_Buzz rolled his eyes, "Old people," he lamented._

_Mike agreed with a smile. _

Mike looked up, the dark splatter of blood on the far away wall like a grotesque painting, the slumped body of the detective, the head that lay on a chest in an unnatural angle.

Damien, Mike suddenly thought, the lost boy. Damien Reynolds, blond and eyes too far apart, freckles on his small little upturned nose. Mathew Reynolds, blond hair that stuck to his now blood-matted temple, the blood splatter that was vivid on his pale skin, the same nose only larger. The uncle, Mike remembered. Who had told him Damien was here? Had the detective been drugged as well? The glazed look to his eyes, the way the young detective had walked, the incomprehensible speech – someone had manipulated the detective to the point of death. Someone had forced the detective to shoot Mike, to make sure Mike, Sanchez and Sykes were not a threat and in return someone had promised the detective his nephew back.

Mike felt bad, the sight of small clumps of yellowed, greyish flesh in between the blood on the wall making him gag. He quickly averted his eyes.

…

The blindfold was off and yet Sharon was not sure it was for the better. Her vision flickered, one moment everything was grey and dull, the next there was long vibrant shadows creeping up from the crooks in the floor, trying to haul her down. Rationally she knew that whatever had been in that injection was affecting her. Only, she forgot the rationality of it whenever the world turned to darkness and live shadows in front of her eyes. It was hard to remain coherent when your head seemed to swim in a dark ocean, being pulled under by unknown forces.

If not for Andy she would surely have succumbed to the floor in a heap, crumbled into a ball and stopped moving.

Her hand was nestled warmly in his; Sharon was reluctant to let go. It was a secure little touch, a warm grip to ground her and keep her safe. His hand was warm and sweaty, enveloped hers completely and squeezed every now and then, coincidently every time she found herself dwelling into dark thoughts with a tremble, every time she was sure she heard something coming for her in the dark.

She imagined her lieutenant was just as glad of the little touch, with the way his hand insisted on holding unto hers.

They came to the landing on the first floor, looking out over the bannisters into the large oval foyer of the front entrance.

"Damn," Sharon whispered and quickly pulled back from the landing, fear poignant as it blossomed inside her.

On the lower steps, facing the large front doors was a black-clothed figure, a rifle securely resting on his lap.

Her hand gripped harder around Andy's.

"Someone's down there," she whispered, almost afraid to speak.

Her lieutenant stuck his head over the landing, his face somber when he knelt next to her.

"He's got two glocks in his belt, the rifle on his lap."

"There's no possible way to overpower him."

The hallway sneaked around the landing and staircase, continued and led to more hallways and rooms. The staircase swept upwards as well, leading up to other floors.

Andy nodded across, in the direction of the corridor opposite them and she agreed.

They slowly made the way across, looking down the stairs at the back of the head of the stranger. They reached the archway of the hallway when a voice suddenly boomed,

"Little captain, you better run, the monsters are coming for you."

She startled at the voice, the way it slipped inside of her and became black-drenched fear. Andy shoved her in front of him, pushing her to run, their hands losing the tentative hold of each other.

The roar of blood rushing in her ears drowned out anything, loud in her head as she ran, one hand clasped desperately around the half bottle, clinging to the weapon in her hand as she ran. The corridor was as long as its counterpart, narrow and dark, curving and leading down small side corridors that lead to long narrow windows and dead ends. They rounded a corner, came to a stop as they stared out of the window at the end, panting.

The glass was grounded in the window, dirty and smudged, hard to distinguish anything from outside but what looked like flat hills and the sun shining. Sharon pushed the door into a room open, half afraid this would be another dead end and the black-clothed figure would catch up to them.

The room was small, lined with empty wooden bookcases, large windows with heavy grey drapes that hung still. Andy laid a hand on the back of her spine, directing her to another door. A small doorway, the archway laid with stone. It led downwards, stone steps. A flight of stairs down into some sort of cellar, she imagined.

Somewhere in the distance but closing in she heard a roar of laughter, a voice proclaiming she would never be able to hide, that awful 'little captain' following along with the threat.

She shuddered but quickly stepped onto the dark staircase, Andy following behind her, his breaths familiar and comforting in the dark.

"_Are you alright?" he asked her and she could only nod, not trusting her voice just yet._

_His touch was soft and warm, cradling her jaw and his eyes were that brown color that melted into her skin. _

_She nodded again._

_He came closer. _

_She opened her mouth, ready to protest or tell him she was fine._

_He slid his arms around her and before she knew it she was cradled against his chest, her head turning to the side and her nose settling against the bulge of his biceps. She breathed slowly, tried to force herself to steady her heartbeat and her breathing. Tentatively she brought her own arms around his middle, the soft little sigh he breathed into the top of her hair soothing. _

"_Shit," he said, his voice shaking, "Never do that again."_

_She refrained from answering. She had never had a gun shoved into her face before, had never been ground zero of a hostage situation. That was what happened when you threw your hands in the air and tried to reason with a psychopath, apparently._

_It was only afterwards she had felt numb. In the moment all she had felt was hyper aware, the pain from being backhanded by the hard gun and the circle of colleagues who had guns trained on her captor._

_She watched Provenza outside her office now, safe in her lieutenant's embrace. Provenza's eyes quickly averted from her and then he shuffled out of view, taking Sykes by the sleeve, leaving the murder room empty. She was thankful, she was not ready to face them all just yet, her nerves raw and her voice shaky. Just a minute more of being surrounded by arms and warmth, and then she would be alright. _

The steps were narrow, hard to see in the dark. They made their way down, hands running along the cold wall to feel their way. She was almost sure she could feel shadows touching her skin, digging into her flesh, trying to get inside. She tried to push the feeling aside, along with a dizziness that seemed to become worse inside her skull. She nearly stumbled into a door when they came upon floorboards again.

It opened into a low ceilinged corridor; concrete cellar floor, dirty and rough. It was dark.

Andy grasped her hand again.

…


	6. Fast approaching shadows

**Part V, FAST APPROACHING SHADOWS **

…

Provenza watched the two police cars burning, flames licking high into the air with trails of black smoke billowing. There was no sound and yet he felt he could hear the roar of fire, the cracking and blazing as fire ate away, fueled and out of control.

It had been a nightmare watching Sanchez crumble to the ground, the camera too far away to tell where he had been shot. Provenza had cried out against the cloth in his mouth, the robe around his wrists chafing as he tried to make them budge. Provenza was irrevocably stuck. He was forced to watch the pool of blood under Sanchez, watch as Sykes crouched next to him and turned him onto his back, her hands on his shoulder smeared in blood as well.

Another shot was fired, Provenza only saw Sykes flinching when the bullet burst into the engine tank of one car. Her hands dwelled into the collar of Sanchez's shirt and Provenza watched her drag him away from the burning police cars, watched as she heaved and dragged till she took cover behind a bush. No more bullets flew but as much as it was a relief it did not calm Provenza down.

Flynn was briefly on the screen, hand in hand with the Captain as they crept along what looked like a cellar-like corridor. On another screen, from another angle he watched the Captain doubling over, vomiting unto the floor. Flynn keeping her hair out of her face, his eyes fastened on the way they had come, an anxious look.

When the screen flickered away from the Captain and Flynn, Provenza was left with another view of an empty staircase. The screen flickered again and he watched an empty corridor.

The door into the computer room opened and the bastard stepped inside, dumping his black backpack unto the ground. The goggles and mask came off and the guy approached Provenza with one of his wide, mirthless smiles. Provenza watched him with a frown.

"It will be spectacular, old man," he said and patted Provenza on his head, the condescending tilt to the gesture not lost on Provenza.

"Do you see how they're all struggling?" he paused with a look at the monitors, "All for you."

Provenza tried to look away from the bastard, averted his eyes from the screens but it only made the guy smile wider.

"Do you wanna greet your guest? The one you came to rescue?" he asked and pointed at the bundle of clothes in the corner. Provenza refrained from grumbling into the cloth; instead he narrowed his eyes at the black figure who went to the corner.

The bundle of clothes; the little feature to the room that Provenza had tried to ignore with vehemence from the moment he had laid eyes on the bundle.

The bastard untangled clothes and heaved the body up for viewing. Provenza saw the tangle of brown-blonde hair and a gash on the temple, old caked blood matted into strands of hair before he realized it was indeed Buzz.

Buzz with a pale pallor, motionless body that seemed to slump toward the ground with more gravity than was possible. Provenza realized there was really nothing to mistake from the posture, nothing to mistake from that skin tone. The kid was not merely unconscious. He had known it for some time and yet he had pretended that still bundle of clothes had not been in the room with him. Provenza had clung to a small hope.

Now it was merely the stark truth.

"Wakey, wakey," the bastard sang as he lifted Buzz's head, "I'm sorry, Lieutenant, I don't think he will wake up anytime soon."

"Now, Buzz – that's his name, right," the bastard chatted, his voice again conversationally as he looked at the dead body in his hands, "He put up a good fight, I'll tell you that. I wanted him alive for you, but well, he struggled too much."

The bastard looked at Provenza then, a strange gleam in his eyes, "You've only got yourself to blame for this, old man. This is all you."

Provenza felt confused and angry, torn between rage and sadness. Buzz had only been a means to an end for the bastard, a tool to ensure Provenza and the rest came to the mansion with haste.

The bastard then quickly got to his feet, stepped a foot away from Buzz.

Provenza closed his eyes and bit down hard on the cloth, his hands balled into fist, nails digging into skin. He refused to look at the bastard any longer, the sight of those blue eyes and that smile; it was sickening.

He heard the door open and close, a little whispered, "see you in a bit," and the bastard left Provenza alone again. The silence sounded sorrowful to him, loud and sad.

"_Where's Buzz?" Mike asked when he entered electronics. Provenza was standing next to the controls, looking over the shoulder of Sanchez as the younger detective tried to tinker with buttons and make the screens do what he wanted. _

_There was a red light flashing that Provenza really did not like the look of. _

_In the interview room sat the Captain, nonchalantly briefing through files in the folder before her on the table, a pen in her hand rhythmically clanging against the table. Every now and then she would grace their suspect in the interview room with a wide, warm smile. Flynn stood up against the wall, arms crossed and a most sour look on his face; his nose scrunched up, lips curled in distaste and narrowed eyes._

_Their suspect, a janitor from Damien Reynolds School, kept giving Flynn a nervous look out of the corner of his eyes, slowly scooting his chair a bit to the other side. The guy was fidgeting, unsure of himself and beads of perspiration had slowly started to form on his forehead, under his armpits. Provenza was just glad he wasn't in the room, he was sure the guy smelled as well. _

"_Late or sick," Provenza grumbled in reply to Mike's question, "Sykes's trying his cell phone. Meanwhile we need sound from the interview room."_

_Mike patted Sanchez on the shoulder and he took over, quickly tapping a few buttons and suddenly the Captain's voice came over the sound system, low but clear. _

_Sykes stuck her head in the door, "I can't get Buzz on his phone or landline. I've even tried to contact him on twitter."_

"_Twitter?" Provenza wondered, not sure he wanted to know whatever it was. _

"_Buzz has never been late before," Sanchez interrupted._

"_If he was sick he would call it in," Mike supplied._

"_That's not our only problem," Sykes said, "detective Reynolds has gone to the janitor's house."_

_Provenza rolled his eyes, "You've gotta be kidding me. Did he at least wait for the warrant?"_

"_Nope," Sykes answered, "I tried to stop him but he's pretty upset."_

"_You don't say," Provenza looked around. Mike would be able to handle electronics. They needed to get to Reynolds before he did something irreversibly stupid. "C'mon Sykes," he told the girl, "We're going detective-hunting." _

_She followed him with a wide smile._

…

She told herself she would not cry.

Amy crouched low behind the wilted bush, just able to glimpse between the branches to look at the front of the mansion and their two cars burning. Her hands were on Sanchez's shoulder, trying to keep the blood from flowing. He was unconscious now. She had briefly turned him and looked at the neat exit wound on his back. The wound was small, clean through. It was better this way, she tried to console herself. It could have been much worse; the bullet could have splintered and torn everything apart. That would have been much worse.

She was unharmed. That was a good thing too. The wound in her hand that was merely a minor disturbance. She could ignore it. She looked around the bush, surveying the mansion and its many blank windows; she listened to sounds besides the roaring of fire licking away at their cars. She wondered if anyone would be able to see the black smoke that rose into the air.

She looked to the gate, out to the dirt road and wondered what would be most sensible to do.

She knew what she wanted to do but it would be impossible to go back into the mansion and find the person responsible for this, let alone shooting him when she had no gun and he was armed to his teeth and knew the layout of the house.

If Sanchez had not been bleeding out on the ground, Amy was almost certain she would go back in.

Instead she took the rest of Sanchez's shirt and tore it further into strips so she could bind it over the gunshot wound, around his torso and shoulder. She kept still, listening while she bandaged his shoulder, every once in a while looking up at the mansion.

Sanchez was heavy; she needed him to be just slightly conscious if she had to drag him anywhere.

She gently patted his cheek and his head lolled, eyes fluttering.

She slapped it again, a little harder, "C'mon, Julio – you gotta wake up."

He mumbled something and his eyes opened.

She hoisted him up to his feet, his body leaning heavily on her but he followed when she started walking in the direction of the gates. They needed to get as far away as possible – and further towards possible help. It was too dangerous to linger here.

_Detective Reynolds was pacing their murder room, again. They had managed to intervene before he entered the janitor's house and now they were merely waiting for a warrant. Sykes tried to ignore him but his shoes were angrily pacing back and forth and the flash of motion before her desk every other second, well it annoyed her._

_Amy did not say anything though, she felt bad for the guy. He was visibly upset, even more so when Provenza had scolded him, rather gently from what Amy could tell._

_Buzz was still not reachable; she had even typed in another little message to him. She just wanted to know whether they needed to worry or if he was down with the flu. _

_Amy could tell even Provenza was a bit worried. It was a Tuesday and closing in on the afternoon. It was highly uncharacteristic of Buzz to not even have called in sick by now._

_Detective Reynolds swept by her desk again._

_Amy sighed; she stood up, "Do you need anything from the break room? Coffee? Water?"_

"_Oh," the detective looked like someone being interrupted from a trance; he blinked and then looked at her. He managed a small smile, "No thank you."_

_Amy smiled back and then hurriedly went to the break room._

_Provenza was tinkering with the coffee machine._

_Amy smiled wider._

"_You making a fresh pot?"_

_He nodded._

"_I'm still not able to reach Buzz," she told him, paused, "We've gotten anywhere with the janitor?"_

"_He lawyered up; Flynn's grumbling out in the hallway with said lawyer and the Captain's in a meeting with the Chief."_

"_Oh."_

_The coffee machine sputtered to a stop, freshly made coffee wafting from it. Amy reached for a mug but Provenza opened another cabinet and drew out two travel mugs._

_Amy arched an eyebrow._

"_We're going on a little take-away tour, right after we check whether Buzz's home or not."_

_She nodded. _

"_Indian or thai?" she asked him._

"_Greek," Provenza answered._

…

She felt faint. The kind of faintness that spun you in circles inside your own head, the kind that made you unsure if the very fabric of your surroundings was disintegrating or simply just rearranging before your eyes. The kind that made you yearn for someone to take a blunt object to your head so you could leave it all behind in a slumber.

Vomiting had not helped. She could not remember when she had last had a meal but it was only acid that came up. Yellow tart spit that she kept gagging up, her feet unsure under her, her skin feeling suddenly too hot.

Andy's big hand landed on her forehead, a small caress as much as to check her temperature. His eyes dark and worried. He kept glancing back the way they had come, fear contained inside his irises.

"C'mon Sharon, we gotta keep moving. There's gotta be a way out."

"I feel sick."

He nodded his eyes suddenly on her again. There was a tense little line around his mouth; it flattened when he stepped closer. He tentatively took a hold of her shoulders. "You were drugged, remember?"

She shook her head. She couldn't remember anything; every little thread of comprehension seemed to slip between her fingers, evading her grasp. There was an underlying dull ache behind her eyes, one that only intensified when she tried to think.

"C'mon," he tugged on her hand and she gripped harder around his hand, following, walking at a pace just short of running. She was not even sure if she was walking or flying, the ground beneath her seemed too far away. It tilted and reversed in a pattern that made her nauseous when she looked down.

The shadows were no longer hiding but were out in plain sight, hovering in the air, sliding along by her feet, tangling in between the concrete floor and walls. It's just hallucinations, she kept telling herself. It did not seem less real though.

She followed Andy, only aware of the shadows and trying to keep a tight hold of his hand. Shadows forming shapes in the air, slithering along next to her, in front of her, behind her. Sometimes they were even in the air above her.

"C'mon, we are nearly there," he said and she gripped harder around his hand, stepping wide of one shadow that suddenly sprouted up from the concrete floor like a plant, its branches full of darkness. She shied away, her shoulder to the wall, edging past it.

Andy walked right through it, seemingly unharmed by its presence.

"Something's wrong with me," she whispered, looking back over her shoulder at the shadow. She was sure it looked back at her, "I feel like I'm about to pass out."

Andy stopped briefly, worry even more pronounced on his face now. There was a shadow slithering around in his hair and it made her uncomfortable.

"I know," he breathed, a small note of resignation to his voice. "That sick bastard injected something into you. You told me, remember?"

She shook her head again, only vaguely remembering that someone had shoved a needle into her neck, briefly wondering why everything felt like a surreal nightmare.

He stepped closer, a thumb along her cheek to make her look at him, "You'll be alright, okay? I promise."

She nodded, he sounded so certain.

"We just gotta get out of here first. Okay."

He insisted on walking, insisted on getting out of here. She was not sure were here was, she was not sure what was real and what was only figments of her drugged mind.

"C'mon Sharon," he told her gently when she stopped again, ready to fall over. She followed him. He wasn't a shadow of that she was almost certain. Maybe she just needed a bit of fresh air and she would be able to breathe, able to remember without it seeming like a hazy dream from years back.

"_I keep forgetting how much I detest lawyers," her lieutenant lamented._

_Sharon refrained from commenting; she had been married to one for too long. She was biased. People tended to not believe her when she said they were not all that bad. Judging by Flynn's pinched expression he was in a sour mood and it would only deteriorate if she mentioned that she had met a few decent lawyers in-between. More importantly today she felt inclined to agree with him. _

_Instead she noncommittally hummed. _

_He uncrossed his arms and took a sip of his coffee. The break room was fortunately empty; they were taking a small break. She had just come from her meeting with Taylor and the Mayor. The reason she felt grateful for the empty break room and the cold water bottle she was sipping from. God, sometimes she forgot how tiring bureaucracy could be. It grated on her nerves today. _

"_You seem far away? Penny for your thoughts?" his voice changed from grumpy to concern._

_She looked up and caught him staring. "Oh, nothing."_

"_Nothing?" now he sounded intrigued, a wide smile plastered on his face from ear to ear. _

"_Nothing, really. My mind's blank."_

"_You sure?" he grinned and earned a smile in return._

_She rolled her eyes; leave it to him to cheer her up unintentionally. _

_She smiled back, drinking a large amount of water so she did not have to answer._

_He continued to look goofily at her._

"_Stop looking at me," she told him._

"_That's an order?" he asked cheekily._

"_Damn straight that's an order," she smiled._

_He gave a laugh and sipped from his coffee cup._

"_You know, my mind would be blank too if I had to be in the same room as Taylor for more than five minutes."_

_She narrowed her eyes, "Not to mention a stressed out Mayor looking to be re-elected."_

"_Right. They still perturbed about budget?"_

"_Budget, popularity with the general public and everything in between."_

_He hummed._

_After a short silence he spoke again, "That janitor annoys the hell out of me, his lawyer even more. But I don't think he's behind Damien disappearing."_

_She shook her head, "No, he seems too shy and intimidated for that."_

"_So we are back to no leads."_

_She sighed and gave a small nod._

_Her lieutenant sipped his coffee and she tried not to look too closely at him, her hands around her water bottle as she thought about what they needed to do now. _

_Mike came through the door looking almost lost, "Provenza's thinks someone's taken Buzz. His place is wrecked and there's no sign of him. There's blood."_

…

Mike was not sure how he managed it but he somehow dislocated the joint of his thumb. A slight 'plumb' sound and he was able to slide his hand out of the handcuff. He was not sure if it was worth the pain though, awful as it throbbed under his skin, his hand aflame from fingertips to his wrist.

He was not even sure if it really happened. Everything seemed distorted as if it was happening outside his comprehension, outside his control.

Mike sat for a long time trying to breathe, afraid to move from fear of more pain.

When he dragged himself away from the radiator, it hurt less than he had imagined. He used his right hand for leverage and tried not to bump his injured leg into the floor. He was covered in sweat in a manner of seconds, breathing heavily as he slowly made a progress across the floor, crawling awkwardly. He gritted his teeth and told himself if not for the pain he would most likely be unconscious. It did not comfort him much.

Slowly he made his way to the corpse of the detective at the other end of the room, the small little gleam of metal his goal. The gun came within his touch and he gritted his teeth further; nearly there.

He gripped the gun that lay just next to the detective's pale hand, for a brief second suddenly feeling a small notion of relief and hope.

Mike heard the creek of the door and turned his head just as the door opened inwards.

_It looked like a robbery upon first glance. Everything strewn out across the floor of Buzz's apartment, open books in among scattered clothes, shards of broken glass and one armchair overturned. It was not different from so many other crime scenes Mike had seen through his line of work but knowing it was Buzz, knowing Buzz was now officially missing, it was horrible. _

_They all wore grim faces as they silently overlooked the technicians and uniforms. Provenza and the Captain were standing in a corner having a solemn discussion, their voices too low to hear. They did not seem to disagree but there was something strained about their mannerisms nonetheless. Flynn had taken Amy along with him and gone to case the neighborhood; Mike understood only too well. He wished he could be anywhere but here. The Captain took out her phone, giving Provenza a quick pat on his overarm before she dialed a number._

_The blood was just inside the doorway. A little pool that was neither too large nor too small. Possible a head trauma, Mike catalogued; they had a tendency to bleed profusely. It was not large enough to be a wound to the heart or a major artery; Buzz hadn't bled out here. _

_Someone had knocked Buzz unconscious and then trashed the place? Then taken Buzz with them? Nothing appeared to be missing from the apartment, as far as they could tell. It was neatly trashed. It was too strategic. _

_They had already sent a blood sample to forensics; it would take some time before they knew if it truly belonged to Buzz. But it was human blood; Mike had already ascertained that with his kit. _

_It was only when the front door closed that they all noticed the square black and white photo someone had stuck to the white wood of the door. A picture of the whole squad, Buzz's head circled with a red marker._

…

Andy had not expected to find Mike behind the door but there he was, half-splayed, half sitting on the floor next to the corpse of detective Reynolds. Sitting in a pool of blood, a bloodied hand around a gun aimed at Andy's head.

"Andy," Mike breathed in relief.

"Mike," Andy said in a likewise relieved tone.

It seemed almost surreal to find each other like this. Sharon peeked around his shoulder, her hand grasping even harder around his. "Lieutenant Tao," she breathed in greeting, her voice sounding shallow.

"I've been shot," Mike said, his voice eerily calm.

"I can see," Andy retorted, looking at the crude bandage around his thigh, "Can you walk? There's another corridor we can try. I think there may be a way out down here in the cellar."

"I can't put any weight on my leg. I can barely crawl," Mike answered and Andy saw the pained expression on Mike's face. Andy walked further into the room bringing Sharon with him; she glanced at the dead man next to Mike.

"What happened?" Andy asked.

"He shot himself," Mike explained, "I think whoever set this up was manipulating him into helping. The detective said something about the guy promised him his nephew would be here. He was talking to someone on a headset and he knocked me down, and then shot me."

Sharon made a motion as if she wanted to take a closer look at the dead detective, Andy tugged on her hand and she stayed.

Andy shook his head, "Best let it be; we'll figure everything out when we get out of here."

Mike nodded, then, "I know the way out. The way we came in, I remember the way."

"Okay; can you walk if I help?"

"I'll try."

Andy let go of Sharon to help Mike to his feet; she almost wouldn't let go, looking at something in the far corner. There was nothing in the corner but dust but Andy knew that whatever that bastard had drugged her with it was something serious. She had told him what had happened when they gone down the stone staircase, the dark full and her voice small. He had never seen her like this. It felt as surreal as everything else about this place, about their situation.

Andy left the broken bottle by his feet as he bent down, sitting on his haunches. He swept an arm around Mike's midsection so he wouldn't have to put too much weight on his injured leg. They both grunted when they stood up, Mike from pain and Andy from the extra weight.

"Captain, are you alright?" Mike asked Sharon when he noticed she was staring into space, a funny look in her eyes.

When she didn't answer Mike looked to Andy, "Is she alright?"

"She's been drugged with something, I don't know, some kind of hallucinogenic maybe. Her pupils are blown and she keeps telling me about these shadows she keeps seeing. She was sick earlier."

"Oh," Mike looked closer at her, then, "She'll be alright. Probably a small overdose. We just have to watch her, make sure she doesn't doze off and fall asleep."

Andy did not really feel reassured but he nodded in agreement nonetheless, Mike's arm around his shoulder heavy.

Sharon looked at the dead detective again, a closer step as she scrunched up her nose. "I feel like I'm dreaming," she stated and Andy only felt inclined to agree with her. The whole thing was absurd.

"A nightmare," she whispered, her eyes flickering between the corner and the dead man. She looked on the verge of saying something else, unsteady and wavering. Andy prayed she wouldn't pass out; he could not carry her and Mike at the same time.

"I can't hold this," Mike whispered to him and indicated the gun shaking in his hand over Andy's shoulder. Andy looked to Mike's other hand; it looked red and swollen. Mike was right, he needed his hand to hold unto Andy's shoulder and Andy needed both his hands free if he was to help Mike.

"Give it to Sharon."

Sharon took the proffered gun and Andy was relieved she did not look at it funnily like she was staring at everything else. At least she was somewhat familiar with a gun in her hand.

Andy stumbled with Mike against his side across the room, to the door. Sharon followed.

They limped along, Andy with Mike on one side hanging onto him and hobbling awkwardly, Sharon just behind them.

Andy was half afraid she wouldn't follow but she did, thankfully.

They rounded a corner, the corridor divided into two separate hallways. Mike pointed in the direction he had come through and they took a right turn. Andy briefly looked in the other direction; it was where he and Sharon had come from. He had half expected something to come barreling down that way, surprising them.

It was a slow progress but they finally made it to the little cellar room that had a backdoor entrance to the outside.

"Little captain, you can't hide," a voice sang, close by, distorted but loud.

They heard footsteps, loud banging as if someone was clanging a hard object against a wall; a beat of sound to announce that someone was closing in on them.

Andy kicked the door into the little room open, stumbling with Mike by his side. Looking over his shoulder he noticed that Sharon had stopped.

"Sharon, c'mon," Andy told her, the tone harsh.

"Get into the room," Sharon told them, her voice steady.

Andy hesitated, Mike about to protest.

"Get into the room and out, lieutenants'," she told them.

She had taken a stand just outside the door, legs apart and her arms in front of her, the gun aimed down the way they had just come. She was biting her lower lip and her eyes flickered but at least her grip on the gun was steady.

"That's an order," she bit out when they still hadn't moved.

Everything seemed to be happening too quickly. Andy reacted to her command, went inside with Mike. They quickly made for the exit; a trapdoor made of two wooden doors, pushed at it till they opened into sunlight and fresh air. Andy helped Mike outside, and then with one foot still inside the room he yelled back to Sharon, "C'mon Sharon, hurry."

There was no answer but the sound of a gun going off.

"_Shit."_

_Her eyes narrowed briefly at his exclamation._

_Andy almost smiled despite it all. Sharon abhorred rough and crass language. When she cursed it was as graceful as everything else she did. He had only upon very rare occasions heard her exclaim something that sounded like 'fuck' and it had either been because she had snubbed her toe against a cabinet or something disastrous had happened to her treasured high heels._

_Her eyes were almost dark when they latched onto him. He wished there was something he could do, anything really, to take away the look of tiredness to her face, the look of slight despair. It was the same expression he wore himself he had noticed when he had gone to the rest room to splash some cold water on his face._

_Someone had taken Buzz. Someone had been following their team around and taken pictures. A little boy was missing. How did it all fit together? They had not slept but worked through the night; now morning had arrived and they were no further along with their investigation. Forensics took time; no neighbors remembered anything important. The janitor was a no-go. Taylor wanted them to cooperate with the feds since their own division was being targeted._

_Sharon was in her office and Andy had joined her after he saw her hang up her phone. She had been talking to Rusty, he figured. The blinds were up; they were in plain view of everyone. He could not take her hand in his. Not that he held her hand ordinarily; he wanted to though. There had been pictures of all of them in that box. She looked slightly disheveled, hair no longer neat or combed. He looked worse though; smelled after too many hours canvassing the area surrounding Buzz's apartment, spent too much time in already too-worn clothes talking to neighbors and running to and from the crime scene._

_His body was fueled by strong bitter coffee to the point where just the notion of food made him slightly nauseous. _

_She briefly touched his shirt sleeve, standing close enough to bring him a bit of comfort and not too close to arouse any suspicion from outsiders looking in their direction. _

"_This is a nightmare," she whispered out of the corner of her lips, her eyes still dark and obscure._

_He nodded his throat tight. Any words leaving his mouth now and it would only end in something neither of them was prepared for. _

_This felt like they were all being targeted._

"_I think we all need to go home, get a couple of hours sleep. A shower and some food and then we can meet again at lunch. Go over everything we have, start from the top."_

_Andy nodded. This was always the hardest thing to do when there was so much at stake. But it was also the most sensible thing to do; everyone who had worked in this profession knew that you could only work so long without breaking. _

"_Rusty home?"_

"_Yeah. I've got a uniform stationed outside the apartment," she seemed fidgety._

"_Better paranoid than sorry." _

_She nodded._

_Neither of them made a move, Andy staring at the top of her head as she continued to fiddle with his shirt sleeve, her eyes avoiding his._

_He was about to open his mouth and say something when they both heard voices of other people. They looked up into the murder room._

"_We've gotta a lead," Provenza said when he came barreling in through Sharon office, the rest of the team in tow and Detective Reynolds lingering in the background with a determined expression. _

…


	7. There's a light

**Part VI; THERE'S A LIGHT**

…

Provenza couldn't bear to open his eyes but then again he could not bear to keep them closed either.

However much the image of Buzz was vivid when he opened his eyes, the image was even more horrible when he closed his eyes. He owed Buzz to not look away, owed the kid something. He didn't want to stare at the screens anymore; it was only bound to be gruesome. He tried not to look too closely at the screens, tried to not look too closely at Buzz.

Instead he tried to bring forth the small trickle of familiarity that kept evading him, the small tingle that told him that there was something to figure out here. It was a puzzle, albeit how cruel it was. Everything had been planned in advance, meticulously with attention to every single one of them. It was elaborate and amidst the horror he tried to place where the personal connection to their team was. The bastard had to have a connection; a grievance he felt Major Crimes needed to be blamed for.

Provenza focused his attention on this. If he could somehow figure it out then maybe he could help some of the others. If he could just keep his anger fanned then he would not succumb to despair and then he would not really register that Buzz was lying on the floor a few meters away, dead. Anger was better – at least for now.

The blonde hair, the blue eyes; Provenza racked his brain for a connection, going through lists of criminals he had sent away, looking for that small piece that would explain it all.

Provenza couldn't say it with a certainty but he was sure it had something to do with him. The bastard had said it was his fault after all; that had to mean something. Everything was set up around the viewing room; Provenza in the middle of it all forced to watch as his colleagues' suffered.

He tried to think back.

…

Sanchez was unconscious again; dead weight in her arms. Amy kept going anyways, dragging Julio by his arms pits, limping backwards and looking over her shoulder so she wouldn't stumble. Her arms were leaden with acid, heavy with exertion. Her legs were worse, wobbling beneath her frame and ready to collapse under her any moment now.

She tried to ignore her injured hand. It was hard to ignore the way it burned like ice though, a persistent throb that went along her nerves to her shoulder. Pain that made her yearn to curl into a ball on the ground and never move again.

She couldn't say how long she had been dragging Sanchez along the dirt road, the stare of the sun as much a blessing as it was a curse. She was glad to be outside though; it afforded her more hope than being inside that god awful house.

She heard the noise before she saw the whirling dust and the black nondescript SUV's coming towards her, the many cars almost a crowd on the lonely narrow dirt road.

Amy nearly wept with relief then. There was no mistaking those large cars or those black-tinted windows. She gently heaved Sanchez up and held onto him with one arm and steadying him with her knee while she waved a hand, standing out in the middle of the road, careful of not jostling him too much.

The cars came over a ridge and they noticed her, speeding up and coming to a halt, agents trickling out of the stopped cars like ants from a nest. Guns, vests and headgear, coordinated and professional. Amy was even more relieved to notice the last van was a SWAT team.

Agent Feldman and his gang followed him out of the first car, worry mixed with disbelief as they approached her. She must look like a mess Amy thought briefly but only because they kept eyeing her with strange looks.

"Thank god," Amy exclaimed when they came within hearing range, "It was a trap. We managed to escape," she gave a nod to Sanchez in her arms, "but the rests are still back at the house, possible hurt or dead". "Where have you been?" she tried to keep the blame out of her voice but it still came out brusque. She wanted to yell at them, tell them everything that had happened but words stuck in her throat. It seemed so surreal to finally be safe, to know that there was an end to this whole nightmare.

An agent came hurrying out of one of the others car, running towards Sanchez with a medic kit. Amy put Sanchez down on the ground, the agent having laid a blanket. She did not feel relief at having to release Sanchez from her hold, did not feel reassured by the agent and the first aid kit. Everything was happening too slowly for her comfort; they needed to move quicker.

Agent Feldman took off his sun glasses, "Detective, what's happened? From the beginning, please – we need to know details before we blunder ahead."

Another agent quickly interrupted, "We were misled. Someone changed the signs out on the road and we drove in the wrong direction."

Amy sighed; she felt almost on edge. They needed to help the others; she did not have time for explaining. Yet she knew they needed to know the lay of the land before they continued on.

"We found the mansion, it looked abandoned. We went inside, one team through the front door, the other through a cellar door. The house is booty trapped with some kind of device that propels a drug into the air. I woke up with Detective Sanchez here, our hands nailed to the floor, in a room far from the cellar where we blacked out. Our guns, phones and vests were taken from us when we woke up. We managed to escape to the outside. Our cars have been vandalized and Sanchez was shot."

Agent Feldman nodded and immediately turned the setting in his earpiece on, started talking to the others on the frequency; two black cars started and sped past them. One of them was the SWAT team. Amy looked at the cars speeding down the dirt road, towards the mansion, the dust behind them somewhat calming to her.

The agent on the ground next to Sanchez was putting more bandages around Sanchez's shoulder, another agent helping. Sanchez still looked too pale Amy thought but she forced herself not to think too much about it. At least he was still breathing, his chest ever so sluggishly rising and falling.

"Agent Nielsen," Feldman looked to the agent by Sanchez's head, "Get the detective to a hospital, give headquarters a head-ups, call for more back-up and ambulances; we might have officers down or potential hostage situations. We might need a helicopter in the air as well."

The agent nodded.

"You're coming with us, Detective Sykes," the agents went back to their car and Amy followed, watching as a number of people lifted Sanchez and carried him to another car.

She would rather make sure Sanchez made it safely to the hospital, follow him in the car and be there when he woke up. But there was nothing more she could do for him; she would be of far more help to the others back at the mansion. That and she had an almost feverish wish to be the one to shoot the head off of the bastard who had done this to them.

She took the proffered protective vest from Agent Feldman. When they gave her a Glock and the car sped along the dirt road to the house, Amy tried to clear her mind and stay focused. Her tiredness began to fade and she was barely aware of her injured hand.

She drank from a water bottle one of the agents gave to her.

This was routine to her. It was like war.

…

"Hello little captain," the black-clothed figure said as he peeked around the corner of a corridor.

Sharon shot at a point just above his head, missing by an inch as he evaded.

"One step closer and I'm going to paint the walls with your brains," she warned, trying not to think about her dizziness and the likelihood of fainting in the middle of this. She just needed to make some time for Andy and Mike to hurry out of this building, time for them to hide out in the woods or something. Time for them to live.

Sharon felt on the verge of blacking out again, on the brink of vomiting again. Andy couldn't carry both Mike and her and they could not outrun the black-clothed figure who was intent on hunting them down. She just needed to keep the guy occupied for long enough for Andy and Mike to get away; she just needed a little time before she slipped into unconsciousness again. She kept her right hand on the gun and steadied herself against the wall with her left, her vision disappearing for a brief second.

The man chuckled, "Tsk, such language."

"What do you want?" she asked even if she knew he wanted something the rational part of her mind couldn't comprehend. His mind was twisted and distorted like her vision; he could want a multitude of things, least of all to watch them all suffer. Why he was intent on hurting her and the rest of her team was beyond her. But she knew he thrived on fear that much she could discern from what had happened. He sought to bring forth fear.

"Provenza said you would be the fun one to tangle with."

"Where's Provenza?" she bit out, stalling for time.

"Watching."

"Watching? What do you mean watching?"

"Let's play a game."

"Let's not."

He chuckled again, "I'll be on the third floor, little captain. See you there."

Then silence for a while. She thought she heard retreating footsteps but she was not sure. She inched along the corridor, the gun in front of her, ready to pull the trigger at the slightest movement.

She came to the corner, her eyes and gun aimed on nothing but an empty corridor. She sighed; he wanted her to follow him.

It was stupid to do what he wanted. But what else could she do? The others could still be in here and she had a gun. That had not made much of an impact the first time around but she was responsible for every member of her team. The longer she kept on this hide and seek with him, the more time Andy and Mike had to get away with and possibly find help.

She followed, walking slowly down the empty corridor, her head feeling heavy.

Her dizziness tricked her, fading only to come back again in a flare.

She came to the stone staircase.

Third floor, she thought.

She spun around at a noise, pulled the trigger.

A long plank of wood hit her over the head.

She vehemently held unto the gun as she lost her legs under her and tumbled to the floor, she tried to lift her arms and shoot again.

She saw the black-clothed figure move into her line of sight, limping as blood ran from his thigh, just below his hip. She did not have time to feel any triumph over having managed to shoot him. The plank of wood connected with her head again and she blacked out.

She woke up a number of times, brief flashes of images of floors and staircases. She quickly fell into unconsciousness again though, not able to stay awake.

Someone was carrying her over their shoulder, limping up stairs and breathing heavily, cursing in among the heavy pants. Her head was hanging down, her hair falling before her eyes when she opened them briefly. Something wet was trickling down into her eyes, falling from her nose.

Everything hurt and ached. She thought she could taste blood in her mouth.

Then darkness again.

…

Andy looked frantically at Mike.

"Shit," Andy breathed and Mike could almost hear the despair and guilt in that one word.

"Shit, shit, shit."

They had closed the trapdoor into the mansion, Andy leaning on the wood of that little entrance; his hand hesitantly on the handle, as if he was not sure whether he should open it again or keep it closed.

They had not heard another shot since the first one, no raised voices or shouts. Nothing. Mike lay sprawled on the ground, just next to the exit. The ground warm underneath him, hard and dry. The sun was hard as well, bright and slipping underneath his skull with a ringing sound that flared like a headache.

He was extremely thirsty, Mike noticed. His lips dry and his throat parched. He knew it was the loss of so much blood; he really needed to hydrate before long.

"Andy," Mike started not sure what to say to calm his colleague down, "The Captain told us to get out of there, made it an order. She wanted us to get out, okay. I hate it as much as you do. But what were we supposed to do?"

"I know, Mike, I know."

Mike stared into the surrounding woods, the flat trees that looked more grey than green. They were far from any neighbors, far from the traffic of travelled roads. In the middle of nowhere, literally.

"Shit," Andy said again, "I can't leave her like this, Mike. I just can't."

"I know," Mike sighed. He could tell everything from Flynn's eyes, the gritted teeth and the balled fists, the lines around his mouth, around his eyes. Mike already knew that Andy would go back inside, look for their Captain, help her in any way he could. Even if it meant his death. It was clear in his expression.

That just left Mike with what to do all alone. He could not walk anywhere with his leg and he would get nowhere just crawling along the grounds in his condition. He would be no help to Andy inside the mansion. He could lay out here in the sun and slowly die. It was better than dying inside, he tried to tell himself. Better to be out here in the sun and fresh air than trapped inside in the darkness.

"I think I'm in love with her," Andy then whispered and Mike almost thought he had heard it wrong. Not because it surprised him much but the voice that slipped from Andy's mouth, it was so unlike any other tone Mike had ever heard from his colleague.

"Just go," Mike reassured Andy, "I'll be alright."

"I can't leave you either," Andy bit out, anger suddenly in his voice, "Shit."

"Please, just go," Mike said again, this time putting more force into the words. He would be inside in an instant if either of his loved ones were trapped inside. Heck, he would gladly charge inside again for the Captain if he could. But there was no strength left in him, only exhaustion. "Go and find her. I would help you if I could."

Andy looked troubled.

"You love her," Mike tried again; if Andy did not soon leave Mike would resort to begging him to stay. "I'll be alright, okay. Just go find her, help her."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure," the words tasted almost bad in his mouth.

Andy knelt next to him, then put something small and round into Mike's hand.

"I'll be back before you know it. The feds will be here soon, okay. You will be alright."

The words comforted Mike a bit.

When Andy closed the trap door behind him, Mike opened his hand and saw Andy's sobriety ring in his palm.

It was a nice gesture and he felt a bit calmer.

That and the warmth of the sun was starting to soothe him.

…

Provenza watched the creep walking up stairs and down darkened corridors, the Captain slung over his shoulder, her head lolling from side to side with the rhythm of the body that carried her. The bastard went into a room and came out again without Sharon, locking the door behind him. Provenza watched the other screens, willing someone else to be on the screens. Someone able to help. The corridors were empty, every room that flashed on the monitors were devoid of anything moving.

Provenza looked up when he heard the door opening.

The bastard came humping inside, puffing.

"The bitch shot me," the bastard told Provenza in a voice that was very different from the one he had used before. There was a strain in it, an incredulous vibration as if the notion of someone actually shooting him was beyond his comprehension.

The bastard strode around the room, fidgeting and seeming unbalanced. He stopped when he came to Provenza and the chair he was strapped to. The bastard kneeled next to him, his eyes on the computer screen.

"Well, lookie here," he whispered gleefully, "Here comes the gallant hero."

Provenza saw Flynn on the screens, moving along a corridor. He should have stayed outside, Provenza thought. He should have escaped instead of seeking out trouble, seeking out pain. This was beyond stupid.

"Just in time, huh," the bastard grinned, his voice once again calm, "Do you think he'll sacrifice himself? Huh? He'll never find her or you, you know. I intercept you see; tell him a thing or two. I might have to persuade him with force; he understands force I've come to understand."

Provenza mumbled against the gag.

"You took away my life. My family," the bastard looked at Provenza again, blue eyes hard in their depths, maniacal almost. "You ruined everything."

Provenza shook his head, if only the bastard would take off the cloth around his mouth so Provenza could talk to him. Only, the guy did not seem interested in dialogue – he only seemed interested in talking himself and inflicting pain upon them.

"I told you I would pay you back. You took my family and I take yours; seems fair, huh."

The bastard took his backpack upon his shoulders, a Glock in his hands and slithered out the door again.

Provenza was about to close his eyes when he noticed something new.

He blinked; almost sure it could only be a figment of his imagination. The arrival of black SUV's next to the burning ruin of the two police cars. Dark shapes filling out of the cars, moving with precision, figures that moved stealthily with guns and labels on their protective vests that did not leave any doubt behind. Protective vests and gas masks.

The feds and SWAT team were here.

The door opened again and the bastard hurried in, his face contorted when he took off his mask.

He locked the door and the look he gave Provenza made every little tendril of hope disappear.

"A change in plans then," he told Provenza in an uncannily calm voice.

…

_A/N: Ug, nearing the end. =)_


	8. Dissolve

**Part VII; DISSOLVE**

…

It had been in the back of his head since the beginning. An acknowledgement that waking up to find yourself bound and restrained, forced to watch your colleagues – your friends – suffer was surely the recipe for further pain if not something that would end with death.

Provenza had known it would not end in a good way and yet now he felt unprepared. Choice, freedom – everything slipped from his sight, left him with the muzzle of a gun against his temple, cold and unfamiliar in its promise. The chair had been replaced by the large body of his captor, ropes replaced by strong arms that snuck around his neck, around his torso, insisting on pressing into his throat so he could barely breathe.

Help might be on the way but would it even matter.

Help had only catapulted the bastard into a strange calmness; to hurry along an agenda that began to suddenly take solid form before Provenza's eyes.

It had all been for his eyes. It had all been set into motion for him.

The bastard directed him out of the door, down a corridor. The sound of SWAT was faint but there, coming up stairs that creaked, kicking in doors where old wood splintered apart.

"Let's pay a final visit to your captain, huh," the bastard whispered in his ear, his breath slick.

Death was surely on the horizon if it had not already risen with a ghastly hue.

"_I won't mind that drink now," Provenza said to the two occupants of the break room besides himself; Flynn with his god-awful toothpick between his lips, coffee between his hands and the Captain munching on a red apple. The comment was directed at Sharon. He watched as her eyebrows came together in confusion._

"_To improve our working relationship," he joked with a quirked eyebrow. What was it, a year and a half since she had taken over their division? A year and a half since she had so annoyingly asked if they could improve their working relationship through drinks and dinner. Provenza found it funny now. _

_Flynn gave him a weird glance, gulping down the last of his coffee._

_The Captain gave a short laugh, her eyes with an obscure glint._

_They had just closed their case, another murderer on his way to lock-up; a deal signed and ready to be delivered. The three of them were standing in the break room contemplating whether to finish paperwork completely or to call it a day. They needed to relax, Provenza thought. They had been called out to this murder in the middle of the night and had worked straight through without sleeping. McGee's was a good place to wind down, even Flynn liked the place. _

_The case had been one of those that needed to be swept away with the company of friends, one of those that needed laughter to diminish brooding darkness._

_Flynn snuck his hands into his pockets,"Better check if he's sick. He looks a bit pale to me." _

_The Captain briefly looked at Flynn, then back at Provenza. Surely she saw what he was trying to say, without having it spelled out for her. Instead she gave a wide smile, looking suddenly smug._

_Provenza rolled his eyes, "I plan to go to McGee's. Whether you tag along or not is inconsequential."_

"_So, what you're saying is that you want to invite me along, is that it, Lieutenant? But you won't mind if I decline?"_

"_Yees," he elaborated with mock-annoyance. _

_Flynn smiled, "See, mental that one," he nodded at Provenza, one of his eyebrows lifting._

"_Mental but only on account of being in your company for two goddamn straight days, Flynn," Provenza bit back, his voice slightly amused underneath._

"_Gentlemen," Sharon intervened, her mouth quivering and curling slightly upwards, "You better be on your best behavior if I'm forced to tag along to this bar of yours." _

"_Always, Capt'n," Flynn delivered in a smooth voice._

_Provenza rolled his eyes, "Buddy, she's seen the way you collect insubordination charges. You are never on your best behavior!"_

_Flynn pursed his lips._

"_Provenza does have a point, Andy," Sharon smiled, her face softening, "You'll have to back that statement with some hard fact."_

"_You two," Flynn grumbled, "are worse than anyone ever gives you credit for."_

_Provenza shared a look with the Captain, her smile wide. They laughed. _

_Sometimes Flynn was an easy target._

_They had celebrated a few times as a team, the whole gang together, but there had always been something formal about it. The ease with which they had all come to know each other, to rely on each other as they slowly started to get the bearings of the new functions within their group; it had fallen into fluidity and comradeship. Additionally, with just the three of them there never was any clue as to who would be on the receiving end of a joke. Provenza found they worked well together, something he had never thought he would be thinking a year and a half back. But that was apparently the way the world spun. _

_They piled out of the break room, the murder room empty. The rest had gone home, ordered to go home and sleep. There was no need for all of them to be stuck on paperwork, the Captain had said. _

"_Let me just call Rusty and tell him I'll be late," Sharon told them as she went to her office._

…

Sharon woke up to darkness and a raw smell again, her face flat against a hard surface. Every breath was laced with a taste of blood and every breath moved her head and brought on a splitting headache.

She flattened her palms against the floor as she tried to ground herself to the feeling – she felt as if there was nothing below her and that she would fall any moment now, into a dark abyss.

She blinked and the darkness seemed less full, outlines flickering. Her vision still felt distorted, her head swimming in tumultuous waters. Concussion, she vaguely thought.

She crawled across the floor, fingers along the ground; she had trouble with her eyes. Everything was either too dark or too bright. Oh god, she was nauseous. She was going to vomit again, she thought.

Something brushed against her fingers.

She stopped.

Her hand came upon the clothed feel of a leg, unmoving.

Hesitant, she focused her eyes and saw the outline of a small body on the floor next to her.

She was overwhelmed by a strange notion that she was not present at all. A strange notion that this was not real. The tang of bile in her throat, however, seemed to rise against the belief that this was but a nightmare.

She quickly crawled to the boy, his skin looking so pale. His skin felt clammy under her touch. Breathing through her nose, Sharon inched closer, ignored the taste of nausea and slid up small shoulders to a neck – burrowing down fingers trying to feel a pulse. Heart hammering in her chest, her mind in a loud uproar and blood gushing in her ears she felt nothing but flesh beneath her fingers; soft flesh and the tensile tendons and muscles. No pulsation of life; was she doing it right?

Cocking her head she leaned down and tried to listen, ear above the mouth of the body, cold lips tingling her own ear.

Nothing.

She tried to ignore the clammy feel of skin beneath her fingers, tried to ignore the small body that did not leave any doubt in her mind. Little Damien Reynolds, she was sure.

She was about to lean away from his mouth when she felt a small noticeable gust of air, barely enough force in it to tickle her ear. Still alive, she thought with relief.

The kidnapper had most likely drugged the boy then, possibly drugged him to the point where he was barely breathing. She thought it strange he had kept the boy alive; he had been a tool to manipulate Detective Reynolds.

She scooted closer and re-arranged the boy till he lay on his side, his head on her lap, her fingers on his neck again and this time finding his pulse however faint it was.

Then she stilled and listened for sounds outside the room, the feel of the little boy's pulse feeble but there to reassure her he was still alive. The room was small she noticed, in the corner was a small mattress and rumbled sheets, a little nest of used water bottles. There was a chair next to the mattress. She looked to the door.

Gently she laid the boy on the floor again, quickly taking a crumbled sheet to put under his head. She tried to stand up but it was next to impossible. There was no coordination in her feet and she stumbled, her head hurting whenever she moved too quickly.

Instead she crawled on the floor to the door, finding the doorknob and trying to turn it. The door was locked. Looking at the door frame she found it swung inwards. It was better than nothing she thought and crawled back to the chair, dragging the heavy object with her to the door again. She put it up against the doorknob, hoping that it would keep.

It would not keep anyone out for a long time and it would not keep out bullets but the reassurance of the chair was better than nothing.

She crawled back to the boy. She slid up to a wall and leaned back against it, cradling the boy and once again finding his pulse. She brushed hair away from his face, her eyes on the door.

There was nothing in the room that would suit as a weapon. The empty water bottles were plastic, the mattress was old and lumpy and she had a hard time seeing herself trying to strangle an intruder with the sheet. Goddamn helpless – and wounded she added, her head protesting.

She tried to calm down, tried to merely focus on the boy's shallow breath, her own heart nearly drowning out any other sound but its own panicky thud-thud.

"It's alright Damien," she told him in a steady voice, her teeth gritted, "We'll be alright." Her voice sounded hoarse, strange in its connotation.

Her head felt so heavy she thought, vaguely aware of the throbbing that kept on pounding inside her skull.

She wondered why her fingers came away red when she touched her temple. She wondered why her nose was covered in blood as well, why it was the only thing she tasted when she breathed.

She wondered if she would wake up again if she fell asleep now.

She tried to keep herself awake, tried to hold onto the little boy but she felt so tired, her head so heavy, her eye lids seeming to weight too much.

She dosed and slipped off to sleep, the boy in her lap.

"_He seems to be in an extraordinarily good mood," Andy said to her under his breath, watching Provenza out of the corner of his eyes. Provenza was up at the bar, getting a second drink for himself. Sharon was still sipping on her white wine and Andy had his cranberry juice._

"_Old softie," she whispered back to Andy in a warm voice, displaying a large smile when she noticed Provenza looking back over his shoulder with narrowed eyes._

_Andy smiled, "Better not let him hear you say that. He'll be a pain in the ass for the next year then."_

_She hummed in reply and took another small sip of her wine. Leaning back against the soft bench she wondered why she felt so comfortable in this bar when she had rarely set foot here before, when it was usually one of those places she avoided._

_Andy was looking at her, she could tell even with her eyes closed. A certain little tingle under her skin, the prickle of someone staring. She did not mind; she had gotten used to it by now. She liked to pretend he was trying to figure her out even if she was not that big of a mystery. She found herself rather transparent but apparently her lieutenant did not. _

_When she opened her eyes he quickly looked down, his hands around his glass._

"_We used to take bets in internal affairs," she found herself telling him._

"_Oh," he looked intrigued and baffled at the same time._

_She smiled and took another sip, finding his eyes on her again. _

"_I think it was right around a time where you and Provenza seemed to attract the most ridiculous trouble, we made a small betting pool – and then something equally ridiculous happened to a detective from Vice and the pool expanded," she explained._

"_You're kidding, right?" he looked flustered._

"_Oh no. We always used to bet on who would screw up. We all had our usual suspects."_

"_You bet on me?" his smile seemed to flicker between weak indignation and glee._

_She sipped her wine again, trying to not crack a full smile. Internal affairs tended to brings its member into being outsiders; of course they had started their own little game of intrigue; formed their own tentative camaraderie when the rest of the force shied away from them._

"_You and Provenza gave me a lot of wins throughout the years," she bit her lower lip, looking up and finding him staring at her with something she had a hard time deciphering. _

"_My, my," he drawled, his voice sly now, "Sharon Raydor partaking in something dubious. Who would have guessed?"_

_She grinned, then "We never gambled about money."_

_He tilted his head, curious, "I'm imagining something now you better correct."_

_She shook her head; he was still the same Andy Flynn, innuendo and a disarming smile, "We bet on who had to take the weekend shifts."_

_He rolled his eyes, "Internal affairs detectives, I tell you, you're too obsessed with rules."_

_She grinned in reply. _

…

At first he thought it was a shock-induced hallucination, the voices sounding too far away. The noise was not coming from inside the mansion, so Mike kept his eyes closed and tried to ignore it. It was only the rush of his own blood he heard, his own mind making it up. An illusion of voices borne out of his delirium.

The sun was warm and he felt on the point of slipping off to sleep. It was almost comforting, a little cocoon of warmth surrounding him. It hurt less and less; he had found a little knoll of grass to rest his head on.

His hand squeezed around the ring in his palm, the metal digging into his skin comforting. He briefly wondered if everyone was dead but the thought quickly flittered away, too intangible to linger long in his mind. He did not have the capacity or the attentiveness to linger too much on any thoughts, everything quickly scattered and left him with only the warmth to soak in.

He was unable to move he found, only because his body seemed too tired to comprehend moving. Or maybe his body was slowly shutting down.

Mike yawned.

The sun was warm on his skin. A comfortable burn that felt almost like a voiceless lullaby, gentle in the way it swept over him, in the way it slipped under his skin and had a drowsing quality to it.

He wondered whether their bodies would be found at all or whether they would be listed as missing.

There it was again, he noted. Voices, closing in.

He kept his eyes closed, tried to distract himself with the feeling of warmth, the unsteady fall and rise of his own chest, slowing down like the rest of his system, pauses in between the two rhythms that left him with only breathlessness and a sneaking fear that had yet to become solid in his mind. The way he felt only cold whenever a cloud passed the sun.

But the voices kept intruding, and kept rising in volume.

Mike opened his eyes when he was sure it was not a figment of his own dying mind.

"Tao," a voice rasped and he thought the voice was familiar.

He squinted against the sun, the sky mostly blue overhead. He turned his head and he found the origin of the voices.

It was like watching something surreal and dreamlike, black-clothed figures running towards him, armed and severe-looking. They looked to be flying he thought, not that it was possible but they moved with something that reminded him of movements in dreams. He recognized Sykes then, the girl kneeling by him, her eyes wide and kind.

"Don't you worry, you're safe now," she said, two black-clothed figures hovering over her shoulder.

Mike watched the other figures crawling through the trapdoor, flashlight on their heads along with gas masks, their guns in front. He counted five.

"Sykes," Mike whispered, his voice sounding foreign and weak to himself.

"Help me with him," she told the two over her shoulders.

Mike tensed, the two big men bending down and lifting him from the ground as if he weighed next to nothing. His body protested at the movement, pain flaring up again and he could only grit his teeth.

"Sykes," he tried again when he had breath to speak with.

"Yes, Mike?" she stood close, her eyes at his level, a warm hand on his arm.

"I don't think I'm going to make it – will you – the sun is so warm – will you,"

She interrupted him, "You'll make it," her voice was hard and brusque; "You'll be fine."

The two men carried him to the other side of the mansion, the front of the yard teeming with cars and agents, snipers behind car doors and aiming at the front of the building. Sykes followed the two men and Mike to the back of the procession, their heads down as they hurried out of the line of fire. The two men put Mike in the back of one van.

"We'll make it, okay. We are all going to be fine."

He nodded, too drowsy to argue. She was young; he could give her a bit of peace by agreeing. He was too tired to figure out what he wanted to say anyway. No, it was better to simply yawn and soak in the warmth of the sun. Better to close his eyes.

_Mike found the senior part of his team laughing at a table at McGee's, Provenza with a red tint on his cheeks as he animatedly told one of his infamous stories from his rookie days. Mike had heard this one a number of times already. _

_Andy greeted him with a clap on the shoulder and invited him to sit down._

"_Hi Captain," Mike said, surprised to find her with the older lieutenants but pleasantly surprised nonetheless._

"_Hi Mike," she smiled back. She waved two fingers in the direction of the bar, "My treat."_

_Provenza clapped him on the back as well and quickly pulled him up from his seat, the two of them sauntering to the bar as Provenza explained that they better take advantage of the fact that their boss was paying. _

_Mike looked over his shoulder and watched Flynn and the Captain sitting closer together, eyes on each other. Exchanging warm smiles that were not meant for outsiders, Mike thought. _

"_Are they aware of how they look?" Mike asked Provenza as they stood in line to the bar._

"_Ha," the old man huffed, "If only."_

_Mike grinned. _

"_So, did you invite the rest of the gang?"_

"_Of course Mike, Julio is picking up Sykes. Buzz's on a date."_

_Mike grinned, "Really?"_

"_Mm-hm, he was all cagey when I asked. Maybe he'll come around later." _

"_Does the Captain know you're throwing this impromptu party in her favor?"_

"_Shhh, of course not. Don't tell her."_

_Mike grinned as he shook his head. _

…

"Sir, you've got to calm down," a tall young guy was telling him, his voice rough and his arms strong as they grasped Andy's shoulders, restraining him. Keeping him from charging ahead and following the SWAT team as they advanced up the staircase.

Andy did not listen, still trying to push his way through and make a line for the stairs.

"You don't understand," he bit out to the young guy from the SWAT team who had apparently been tasked with taking Andy outside.

"Stand down, sir," the young guy told him as Andy was pushed back to the wall, "We've got it. Calm down and let us do our job."

Andy clenched his jaw, his whole body feeling tense. Even if he wanted to calm down it was impossible, adrenaline coursing alongside fear in every little fiber of his being, making him shake with effort as if he was sick and feverish.

He had been on the way up to the third floor when the staircase had been overtaken by SWAT. Relief at seeing them was quickly replaced by indignation; they moved on without him and left this young guy to force him outside. He was not going anywhere; he needed to find Sharon. SWAT and procedure be damned.

Andy gritted his teeth, "Look here kid, I need to find my Captain."

The guy still held onto Andy with a firm grip. "You need to come outside with me; you need to see a medic. Sir," the last bit was added with a tone that felt mollifying.

"I'm not going anywhere but up," Andy told the idiot.

The guy spoke into his headset, "I need back-up with the lieutenant; he's panicking."

The headset scratched as someone answered.

Andy huffed, anger blending into the mix, "I'm not panicking."

"Sir, you either follow me outside willingly or I'll have to administer a mild sedative."

Andy pushed against the guy, about to tell the young rookie a thing or two when they both heard the unmistakably sound of shots being fired.

Andy stilled, dread tasting like acid in his mouth, his stomach clenching.

_She was not drunk, of that he was certain. She had only had two glasses of wine while the rest were on their third – or fifth in Provenza's case. Sanchez and Sykes had joined their little celebration not long after Mike. _

_They could barely fit around the table, sitting side-by-side on the small benches. It did not really matter, voices and smiles flowing._

_No, she sipped her wine slowly, her fingers around the stem of the glass, fiddling when she was not drinking._

_Sure they had celebrated cases being solved before but not like this. Not with a feeling of being a tight-knit group, not with the feeling of being amongst treasured friends. _

_Andy smiled back at her, enjoying the warmth of her shoulder next to his._

_Everytime she shifted he felt it, everytime she turned and looked at him when conversation landed upon him, her eyes warm._

"_My first case in I.A and I had to file a report against Chief Henderson," Sharon told Provenza. They were comparing notes on the most awkward, awful things that had happened to them in their long careers; apparently it all revolved around Chief Henderson who had been a menace back when they had started their careers. Andy could have beaten them with his eyes closed but it was funnier to listen to them goading each other and trying to think up what was worst._

"_Ha, that's nothing. I once had to pull Henderson from his anniversary weekend to attend a press conference because robbery/homicide had screwed up."_

_Sharon shook her head, "I don't see how yours worse."_

_Provenza puffed, "Have you ever tried to interrupt Chief Henderson in the middle of trying to woo his wife!"_

"_Have you ever tried to tell Chief Henderson that you were reporting on a sexual harassment charge against him? In front of said wife," Sharon countered._

"_Who's this chief Henderson?" Sanchez asked. It was before his time._

"_An old grouch who used to be the terror of every new rookie on the force in the late 80's and early 90's," Andy answered._

_Sykes laughed, "The good old days, huh."_

_Andy nodded._

_The conversation turned to another story with the old Chief, Mike remembering an old rumor suddenly, Provenza clarifying. _

_Andy turned to Sharon and whispered, "I win, just so you know."_

_She turned to him, her eyes light, "Huh?"_

"_I once banged up the old chief's Mercedes. The old man was livid and had me relocated to doing night shifts for a half year."_

"_I haven't told you the whole story," she whispered back then, her eyes suddenly glinting, "I'm sure my story still triumphs yours."_

_He shook his head, "What aren't you telling me?"_

"_I was the one filing the report."_

"_Yes," he paused and then finally getting it, he shook his head. "Henderson harassed you?" his voice was still a whisper but it had risen, incredulous tone in among slight anger. _

_She smiled, "Propositioned me. I told him about the report in front of his wife and he never bothered me from that day forth."_

_Andy smiled, "Okay, you win."_

"_A tie," she offered with a smile, "Henderson was rather attached to his cars from what I can remember."_

_Her hand passed his knee, a quick pat before she once again took a sip of her wine. Andy smiled into his glass. _

…

Amy stood behind a line of cars, Agent Feldman next to her as he talked over the radio, coordinating everything. His voice was harsh and strained, demanding to know what was happening inside the building.

Amy told herself to breathe, told herself to not think. Just breathe.

The shots had been loud outside, her eyes immediately averting from the car where Mike was sprawled out, two agents trying to do what they could with the meager contents of a rudimentary first aid kit. They were still waiting for the ambulances, dispatch placing them a good ten minutes away. She eyed the front of the building now; the sounds had come from inside.

Feldman had told her to stay put once she came back with Mike; he had not seen her follow the team sent through to the back and his eyes had been hard and reproachful when she had come back. Amy had shrugged; what did he think she was about to just stand aside dolefully and watch.

Now there was nothing to do but wait. She was starting to feel dizzy and even if she wanted to be with the team inside she knew the limits to her own body. She was exhausted.

Her breaths were steady yet she felt as if her lungs were too loud. Mike slipped to and from consciousness, mumbling something about the sun and then dosing off, the two agents not daring to get him to drink water. That was always the awful part when someone had lost so much blood and you did not have the means to put in a drop; water would only end up in Mike's lungs now with the way he kept falling asleep.

He seemed to be in an even worse shape than Sanchez. Sanchez, she tried not to think about him either.

There was silence from inside the building, SWAT not responding to Feldman's questions, only scratching noise on the radio in answer.

Amy fidgeted, her feet feeling uncomfortable with standing still. She needed to move.

The front door opened and two agents came out with a struggling Flynn.

Feldman held her back, his hand on her elbow. He was right; it would be stupid to rush into a line of fire from the many windows of the mansion when they had no clue as to what was happening inside.

Amy squinted her eyes; he seemed relatively unharmed.

Flynn was yelling, his face red from anger and exhaustion and yet there was not much he could do against two burly SWAT guys who hauled him along the gravel, their pace quick. They quickly made it to cover behind the barrage of cars.

"Flynn," Amy spoke trying to keep her voice gentle. The lieutenant looked like he was on the verge of completely breaking down. She approached him, keeping her head down as she moved between cars. She needed to calm him down before one of the agents resorted to calming him down with a sedative. That would only be a disaster. She imagined Flynn and the rest had been drugged like Sanchez and her; the last thing they needed now was to aggravate Flynn further.

Flynn looked up from the ground, the two agents pinning him down by his arms.

The air seemed to slip from his body and the lieutenant stilled.

"Sykes," he breathed, "You're alive."

She kneeled next to him, finding his eyes strangely dark. He looked like shit she thought.

"Hey," she greeted, trying to keep her voice calm and reassuring, "Sanchez and Tao are safely out. Okay?"

He nodded.

"Now, we've got you out as well."

He nodded again.

"We'll get Provenza and the Captain out too, yes?"

He nodded but he still seemed too tense.

Feldman yelled something into his headset; Amy looked over her shoulder to the agent in charge. The radio scratched again, then "We've got an agent down up on the third floor, suspect fired and we responded." came out of the radio.

"The suspect is using the lieutenant as a shield, moving away from the east wing. He's gone into a room, we're approaching."

They heard another barrage of shots, every eye in the yard locked on the many windows of the building.

They all waited their breaths withheld, nervous fingers and hope tasting more like dread.

The radio scrattered again with noise, then "We have four people in the room, our sensor sees two bodies on the ground. We're going in."

Amy leaned forward and grasped Flynn's shoulder; he was breathing too fast, the two SWAT guys tentatively letting go of him. He sat up, a hand going through his hair, eyes locked on the building.

There came a lot of noise over the radio then, voices yelling, and a loud clanging sound in among gun shots.

Amy heard the sirens of ambulances before she saw the vehicles coming through the metal gates. Just in time she thought, only she was not sure what condition those inside the mansion would be in, she was not sure what had happened.

_They were in the middle of a group cheer when Buzz came into the bar, making a bee-line for their table._

"_Buzz," a choir of voices greeted him. He smiled self-consciously, brushing a short strand of hair from his eyes._

_Amy patted the seat beside her, "Sit down," and then, "What's your poison?"_

"_Something sweet," he answered._

_She gave a smile, "I'll surprise you then" and she went to the bar for drinks._

_Sanchez joined her, his arm briefly around her shoulder, "A beer for me, huh?"_

_She nodded and he went to the toilet._

_Before she could order the Captain came up next to her, flashing her credit card, "I'm buying another round."_

_Sykes smiled at her, "You won't find me complaining, I'm sure your salary is better than mine, Ma'am."_

"_Of course it is," she replied her smile sly._

_They grinned at each other._

_Amy looked over her shoulder as she waited in line with the Captain, watched Buzz getting grilled back at the table by Provenza and Flynn, Mike merely smiling and looking between them. Buzz's gaze flickered nervously between the older lieutenants, his face becoming redder by the second._

_The Captain looked back as well, sighed, "I'm not sure it's wise to ever leave those two alone," Amy had no doubt she was referring to Flynn and Provenza, "I'm gone five seconds and they're already in the middle of shenanigans."_

_Amy laughed, "Poor Buzz."_

_The Captain shook her head, "We'll have to teach them subtlety Amy; it's not their strong suit." _

_Amy agreed as she watched Flynn prod Buzz with an elbow while Provenza was doing something with his eyebrows. _

…


	9. Rescue

**Part VIII; RESCUE**

…

Sharon woke up with a start, a loud sound rousing her. Something banged up against the door into the room she was in. Something hard colliding with the wood repeatedly until the door burst open, the chair skidding across the floor. She opened her eyes against her pounding head, the door slammed shut behind two figures.

"Little captain, how very generous of you to bar me access," the black-clothed figure said as he limped further into the room, Provenza in front of him.

Something was wrong.

Sharon blinked, trying to focus, trying to keep awake. Her head felt too heavy on her shoulders, a headache inside her skull that felt on the verge of rupturing right through her bones. She steadied herself against the wall, fear mixing with pain at the intrusion. This was bound to end badly. The boy lay in her lap, unaware of the sudden danger. She laid a palm against his shoulder, afraid.

Provenza looked disheveled, his eyes landing on her with something that came across as apologetic. He mumbled something, she couldn't understand him though. She only saw the gag around his mouth when the guy moved them further into the room, rotating till he stood facing the door, a gun pressing into Provenza's cheek.

Sharon struggled, scrambling to her knees, palms on the floor. Her vision faded and for a moment there was only darkness. When the room came into focus again she quickly put the boy behind her, blocking him from view of the black-clothed figure.

"They're coming; your precious back-up. Better say your goodbyes now," the black-clothed figure said the gun more firmly into Provenza's skin. She recognized the wide look of fear in her lieutenant's eyes, sure it was the same she wore herself.

She did not understand – who was coming?

"Bye-bye now," the black-clothed guy said, prodding Provenza to look at her, the gun more forcefully into his cheek, turning his head in her direction. Provenza looked back at her with frantic eyes. She thought she heard commotion outside the room but the sound was weak in comparison to her heart roaring, to the throb in her head.

Sharon tried to stand, her hands on the wall for support. Everything was spinning, out of order. She was too unsteady on her feet and fell to her knees again, the wooden floor rough against her skin.

The guy tightened his arm around Provenza's neck, the gun turning and pointing in her direction instead. Provenza tried to snap for air, the gag making it impossible. Fitful air came out of his nose and he tried to struggle, the arm against his throat blocking his airways.

It all happened so fast she did not have time to register the intent of the gun aimed at her. It had yet to solidify in her mind that this was it, the slurred perception of the world inside her head slowing down her response.

The door burst open again, this time however a canister went into the room. Her eyes followed the little canister as it rolled across the room till it stopped. An exploding sound filled the room and abruptly everything was covered in thick white smoke. Smoke that filled the air with obscurity, the figure of the black-clothed guy and Provenza momentarily gone from her sight.

Thick smoke that travelled into her airways and made her snap for air, her eyes watering. What followed was an explosion of shouts, sounds of people moving into the room with heavy boots. In amidst this she heard gun shots.

She was only aware of pain suddenly flaring, abrupt and searing. It tore her abdomen apart, a spasm of pain. Her hands tried to compress it away but it was infinite. When she looked down she was surprised to see her own blood. On her hands, on her shirt; flowing fresh and freely.

She looked up to the ceiling, not remembering lying down all of a sudden. She turned her head, able to just make out the form of the boy. He seemed unharmed, still unconsciousness. She tried to reach out for him but the motion made her flinch in pain.

Thankfully the world around her quickly evaporated and left her dwelling into unconsciousness again, everything swept away by nothingness.

_Flynn swerved into traffic with ease, his hands around the steering wheel. Sharon took her phone out, leaving a text for Rusty, asking him how his day had gone, telling him she would be a bit late. She would have called him only she was exhausted from lack of sleep and they were rushing to the location were Buzz was held; she was bound to be emotional on the phone and Rusty would instantly know. He had no reason to worry unnecessarily, she thought. _

"_Do any of you have a water bottle?" Andy asked, briefly eying her before his eyes were on the road again._

_Provenza snuck his head between the two seats in the front from the backside, "I was on my way to get lunch when Mike located Buzz's phone."_

"_I think I might have one," she replied, finding the bottle in her bag, "Mm-hmm."_

_Andy took a big gulp before passing the bottle to Provenza in the backseat._

_They left her a three quarter and she drank the rest. When this was over she would need to sleep and eat; they all would she amended, knowing none of them had done much of it in the last days. They had managed to grab a thing or two to eat since finding out Buzz had been kidnapped, but it had been sporadic and hurried. _

_Rusty texted back and she opened the message. She gave a short laugh._

"_What?" Andy asked._

"_Snide teenagers."_

_He grinned at her briefly._

_She texted Rusty back._

_She looked forward to spending some time with her boy as well; she had been extraordinarily busy as of late and had come home late almost every day for over a week. Maybe they could take a day off, eat some good food and go to the beach. There was this little secluded place she wanted to show him._

_She smiled briefly but quickly soured, her mind once again on what lay ahead. _

…

Amy stood shoulder to shoulder with Flynn, both on the balls of their feet, eager to move, eager to know what had happened. Both forced to stand back and let others do the work. Amy was sure if either of them tried to force their way into the mansion, the three agents standing silently nearby eyeing them would quickly step in their way.

They were forced to stand with Feldman, waiting, the radio scratching as a voice proclaimed the scene was contained but not secure. They were worried the bastard might have set up traps, explosives or other devices that would make the mansion hazardous. So instead of charging inside they were forced to wait for SWAT to come out. Forced to wait for news about Provenza, the Captain and Buzz.

It was unbearable.

There was static on the radio.

Amy could barely comprehend what was happening around her, the yard swarming with agents and paramedics alike, the many people looking nondistinctive whenever her gaze landed on them. The world seemed surreal, she thought. Her body tingled with a need to know what had happened. A feverish need to see the rest of her team safe and sound.

An agent tried to push a water bottle at Flynn but he shoved it away with a grimace, eyes dead set on the front, hands balled into fists. He looked ready to run inside any second now Amy noted.

A paramedic was trying to sterilize the wound in her hand, having noticed the blood on the cloth around her hand. Amy watched one ambulance driving away, lights flashing, Mike in the back and on his way to a hospital. Her hand hurt but it was far from critical she thought; no she was rather occupied with staring at the front of the building and the entrance where any minute now SWAT would come out with the rest of her team, hopefully.

Feldman was silent, his eyes flickering between his own agents and Amy and Flynn, then back to the mansion.

She bit her lower lip. Crying could wait. A paramedic took over for the agent and rather harshly shoved a water bottle into Flynn's face, standing in front of the lieutenant and talking about dehydration and shock. Grudgingly Flynn took the bottle and gulped down the contents, waving the medic away with a distracted hand motion. The paramedic by her side bandaged her hand again.

They were both out of sorts, Amy thought, both caught in a strange world of feeling left out, frantic. They were relatively unharmed on the outside but inside there was only turmoil, only worry and dread. Inside she felt wounded, a feeling she was sure Flynn shared with her judging by his whole demeanor.

The radio scratched again, this time asking for medical assistance, gunshots wounds and something about someone having stopped breathing, something about someone not being stable enough to move outside. The words seemed distant somehow, Amy having trouble comprehending their meaning.

Three paramedics ran inside the building with equipment, an agent escorting them. Two other medics stood back when Feldman waved them aside, "We have one coming outside in a second. He was stable enough to move."

Sure enough, just as the three medics and the agent disappeared into the building two figures came out with a third person between them, halfway humping and halfway being lifted between the two agents.

Amy couldn't move, her eyes rooted to the familiar figure, a strange feeling of lightheadedness overcoming her.

It was Provenza humping between the two SWAT agents, his face contorted in pain and the lower part of his leg bloody. It was the wound on his temple that Amy latched onto, the trickle of blood down on side of his face, the way it had dripped to the collar of his shirt.

"Shit," Flynn muttered, his voice shaking. He ran towards the people carrying Provenza, no one stopping him. Amy still couldn't move.

The two paramedics Feldman had held back now hurried past her, a gurney with them as they headed for Provenza.

Amy saw the old lieutenant being lifted to the gurney. Flynn's pallor was white she noticed, hands even more fisted that before. When the gurney passed her Amy noted Provenza had opened his eyes and was staring up into the sky, his mouth moving and he was saying something to the paramedics and the agents.

She could breathe again; suddenly able to move as she went to the gurney, followed it to the back of an ambulance.

"Don't look so down Sykes," Provenza gasped out, "I'm still alive, girl."

Flynn gave a nervous chuckle, "Shit old man, don't joke."

"I think my leg will manage," Provenza then drily retorted.

"Don't move, sir," a paramedic told Provenza, already in the process of cleaning out the wound on his temple and the one on his leg, the blood on his shirt and on his pants made it look grotesque. Amy breathed a sigh of relief; if Provenza could grumble then surely he would be alright. Surely he would be fine.

"What the fuck happened?" Flynn bit out, his hand briefly around Provenza's shoulder in a squeeze, a pained expression likewise on his face.

Provenza began to sit up despite the paramedic's protests, "It's a mess," he told Flynn, "I haven't a goddamn clue. One moment the bastard had the gun to my head and the next he was pointing at the Captain. Then SWAT moved in and everything happened so fast."

"Feldman," Provenza bellowed to the agent, the medic by his side sighing, "Sir, you've gotta sit still."

"Feldman, what's going on? Where's our Captain? Is she alright? There was too much smoke, I couldn't see and before I know it your agents was pulling me out of the room."

Feldman jogged to them while speaking hurriedly into his headset. Amy couldn't tell what he said.

"They're still assessing the scene," Feldman said when he came to stand beside them, Provenza still sitting on the gurney, the medic looking to his wounds with a half defeated expression.

"Who needed medical assistance inside?" Flynn asked, his voice strained.

"One SWAT agent was shot in the arm in the rescue," Feldman started.

Amy watched Provenza grimace when the medic by his side started putting gaze around his leg. "Sir, you need to lie down. You look pale. I need to put in a drop; you've lost a lot of blood."

Provenza ignored the guy; his eyes on Feldman as the agent looked on the verge of speaking again.

"Out with it, Feldman, is she alright?"

Feldman quickly nodded to a SWAT guy beside Flynn who took a step in Flynn's direction, and then Feldman said, "They are bringing your Captain and a kid out now. One of them stopped breathing, the other was shot. I don't know which one was shot or how bad it is. The medics went in to assist with bringing them out, stabilizing them the best they can before we can move them."

Flynn looked sick, panic in the depths of his eyes. Provenza finally lay down, his eyes closed tight for a second. Just breathe, Amy told herself. Don't think, just breathe.

_Amy looked out the window shield at the back of the police car they were following, her hand on the steering wheel white. She could just make out the back of Provenza's head in the other car. They were at the outskirts of the city, speeding along less traveled roads and towards more deserted landscapes. Of course the bastard had taken Buzz to the middle of nowhere, she thought with a grimace._

_Sanchez sat next to her in the passenger seat, looking over his gun, quiet, his eyes dark._

_Mike sat in the back with Detective Reynolds, in the middle of a phone conversation with Provenza, apparently. _

"_They're going to send a SWAT team," Mike told them when he ended his phone call, "eventually."_

"_Eventually?" Sanchez questioned, his voice brusque._

"_The feds are in the middle of a drug bust, with the whole battalion of the SWAT-force. They're going to be busy for a while. They told the Captain to call if we needed back-up." _

_Amy quickly looked sideways and caught Sanchez's narrowing his eyes, his mouth a firm line. _

"_We'll manage," he said to Mike in the back_

_Amy made a quick overtake on the road, following neatly behind Flynn driving the other car. _

"_Sykes, are you watching where you're driving," Mike said, and Amy looked back over her shoulder with a smile, "Yes, Tao." Tao always felt insecure when she drove, she couldn't understand why but it was one of those small things that made her grin; one of those funny things that reminded her of her mother and how she would cling to her seat whenever Amy drove._

"_You know, Mike, Sykes here used to drive around Afghanistan, all helter-skelter through mountain passes," Sanchez told Tao, a small smile briefly on his lips._

"_I sure did, "Amy replied when Mike groaned. _

_A phone rang; Detective Reynolds answered. _

_Sykes listened to him for a brief second, then found herself more occupied with the road._

_The detective was only answering in short syllables, his voice strained. She wondered if he was talking to his brother. The parents to Damien Reynolds. Maybe the kid would be at the place as well, she thought. She tried not to think too much about Buzz; every time she lingered on him her throat closed up tight. They just needed to find him safe. _

…

This was not happening.

Andy could barely think, could barely understand why he felt faint, why the world suddenly spun him in circles. His knees were weak underneath him and yet he scrambled past agents, his eyes on a familiar slumped form being carried outside by a SWAT agent, a medic next to them. Familiar clothes, a pale pallor underneath the blood.

Blood. He only saw blood.

His hands shook.

Her face was white, crusted blood on a gash on her temple, trails of blood that ran in tendrils down her face, up into her hairline. There was crusted blood around her nose as well, he noted, his eyes focused on only her.

She looked so pale.

So much blood, new and flowing from her abdomen. White gauze on her stomach along with the pressure of the medics hands, blood staining both.

Andy lost his footing, his feet sliding out from underneath him. His hand shot out and he leaned against a SWAT guy suddenly by his side, horrified and the feeling of something sneaking its way up his stomach raw, something travelling past his throat with force; he retched.

Stomach contents landed on the ground, on his feet – shoes; he did not care – his eyes stuck on the body.

It was a very dense feeling that settled in under his skin; it seemed to pull him towards the ground, his body heavy. It made it impossible for him to move or think. If it had not been for the SWAT agent holding him up, hands under his arm, he would surely have fallen to the ground in a crumble by now.

This was not happening.

This was _not_ happening.

They carried her to the third ambulance, her limb body looking frail on a gurney. There was blood in her hair, he noticed, strands sticking together.

He did not notice the little boy that followed; still and unmoving as well, a medic carrying him to the ambulance where Provenza sat up again, his face grey.

"Flynn," Amy tentatively approached him.

He did not really hear her, eyes still on Sharon.

Paramedics worked on her, opening her eyes lids and flashing a light into her eyes. She lay still like a doll.

Andy took a step towards the ambulance.

"I need to," he started but someone stood in his path, baring him access. "I need to see her," he croaked. Someone held unto his shoulders and was talking to him in a slow, slurred voice. He did not understand the words; they seemed too far away for him to comprehend.

He saw a paramedic pull apart her shirt, her collarbones white against the blood on her shirt. The medic put monitors on her, the small lines on different parts of her chest, hooking her up to something with a screen, an oxygen mask over her mouth. Then the medic compressed more gauze to her abdomen, Andy watched blood stain the white of the gauze, blood between the fingers of the medic as he compressed.

One medic ran to the front and got behind the wheel, the car door slamming. The other medic in the back was about to slam the door into the ambulance as well.

Andy pushed at whoever held his shoulder and stumbled the rest of the way to the ambulance, trying to make them understand he needed to go with her.

Someone was shouting at him, telling him to calm down.

Someone was shouting at the paramedic who stood in the doorway to the ambulance.

Everything was happening too fast. It was happening beyond his perception, bodies suddenly around him, hands hanging unto him and trying to force him away, telling him to calm down.

He struggled, his elbow connecting with someone's nose, his hand adamantly around the door handle to the ambulance door.

Someone bellowed in a rough voice. Provenza, Andy thought.

The ambulance door shut close, a hand around his elbow keeping him restrained.

The ambulance drove away, speeding past the gates, its siren loud.

Andy felt lost, staring after the whirling dust and the vehicle that became smaller and smaller. Exhausted he slumped to the ground, this time no one keeping him upright. He felt nothing but hollow, his insides a devouring void. His hands shook slightly he found when he looked at them, a small tremor that reminded him of when he had first tried to become sober.

Someone was saying his name. He looked up and found Sykes kneeling by his side, her eyes expressive but he could not for the life of him figure the emotion out.

No one would understand the horror that rested under his skin, the way his heart was clenched tight as if someone had a hand around it and was squeezing. He just wanted to be in that ambulance with her. What if she didn't make it? What if she stopped breathing on the way to the hospital, coded? He needed to be there. What if she died and he wasn't there? No one would understand. He barely understood himself.

"Flynn," Sykes tried again, her voice gentle. He thought it sounded too collected but the moment he caught her gaze he realized it was only an illusion; she was trying to be strong.

He took her proffered hand and stood up, feeling wobbly on his legs.

"Just breathe," she whispered to him, her hand squeezing around his hand.

He exhaled, trying to breathe, trying to not crumble.

"She's going to be fine," Sykes said, confidence in her voice that Andy wondered where came from.

He gritted his teeth, forced himself to remain coherent even if he wanted to slump to the ground again and cry himself to sleep.

She was going to be fine, he repeated to himself.

_Sharon was pursing her mouth, unsatisfied with something Andy guessed. He quickly looked ahead of him, his eyes on the road as he drove._

_They were still an hour's drive away from the GPS location. Buzz's phone had suddenly been turned on for a brief second and Mike had managed to track the location before it got turned off again. Now, here they were, speeding along a highway, the GPS on the dash telling him there was still a long drive ahead._

"_Taylor's going to be pissed we drove off without waiting for SWAT," Provenza muttered in the back._

"_Tell me something new," Andy answered._

_Sharon kept her mouth closed, looking out the window, her hands clenched in her lap. _

_They sat in silence again for a long while, Andy driving, his foot on the speeder more pronounced, every once in a while he looked in the rearview window and saw the other car following. _

_A phone rang, and Andy saw Sharon reach out to her bag on the floor of the car._

"_Captain Raydor," she greeted the caller. Andy watched her hum and nod, a few yesses and noes in between. Then a thank you before she ended the call._

_Andy turned his head sideways to give her an enquiring look._

"_Satellite photos show the area remote but what appears to be a run-down building."_

"_What kind of building?" Provenza asked._

"_Two or three-story, surrounding woods out back. Our cars will be seen coming down the entrance drive way though. No surprise visit then." _

"_We'll divide up, go in two teams. Is there a back entrance?"_

"_They didn't say."_

"_Julio will find it if it's there."_

_Andy listened to them, his eyes on the road. _

"_We don't have headsets with us, so let's keep our phones open," Sharon said._

"_So Flynn, you and me go in the front – the rest around the house," Provenza said._

"_Yes," Sharon agreed._

"_Let's keep an open line to central," Flynn intervened; they were practically going in blind. It was good to have a back-up._

_Sharon hummed in agreement. _

_If not for Provenza in the back he would have reached across and grasped her hand._

…

Provenza rode in the ambulance with the little kid. Damien Reynolds, alive after all; it was a surprise. A good surprise amidst what felt like utter chaos. Provenza wondered what had made the bastard spare the kid. There was so much he did not understand, so much he needed to know before everything would make sense. Why had the bastard not simply shot Provenza and let everyone be?

The kid lay on a gurney, an oxygen mask on and his little chest rising and falling with more precision now. The paramedic had looked the kid through and put in a drop, a monitor beeping and keeping track of the kid's vitals. The kid had stopped breathing for a while but they had managed to start him up again, intubated and kept on regular breathing now.

"You want something for the pain," the medic asked Provenza.

Provenza shook his head, trying not to grimace.

His leg was bandaged up and the medic had provided him with a drop as well. It was still some of a wonder to Provenza that he lay here in an ambulance, alive and practically well. He had never imagined it would end like this, end with a bullet through his leg not even courtesy of the bastard who had started this whole nightmare to begin with. No the bastard had tried to shoot him but the bullet had scraped past Provenza temple and only ended up a flesh wound. SWAT had shot the bastard right between his eyes. Provenza could still see the image when he closed his eyes.

What he saw besides the bastard dead when he closed his eyes however was troubling him. He saw the captain bleeding out, on a gurney. He saw the images on the screens he had been forced to watch throughout this whole ordeal, and now he was left with wondering how Julio was faring, how Mike was doing – left with the image of Buzz dead.

His leg hurt like hell, his muscles cramping when he moved, but he preferred coherency for the moment instead of slurring everything with pain medication. The moment they arrived at the hospital he was sure he would be doped up before he could utter a word, hurried to surgery most likely.

The medic said he had lost a lot of blood but most likely the bullet had not severed anything critical. Torn muscles, a small headache and pain; why Provenza had thought it would end with a bullet through his eyes. It was a very strange feeling; one he could not understand.

Buzz and the bastard had been carried out of the mansion just as the ambulance with the Captain had driven away. Provenza had not had the time to warn either Sykes or Flynn before they laid eyes on Buzz. Sykes had paled and her eyes landed on the ground. There was nothing to do or say to prepare anyone for this; no words would do.

What Provenza needed to know was out of his grasp for the moment. They had no identity on the man who had put this whole nightmare into motion. Not yet. Feldman had assured Provenza they would have the scene fully secured and processed, and that the moment they identified the man they would call him. Provenza however knew how long that could take.

His own injuries seemed too inconsequential to him to worry too much about it. He was more concerned with everyone else. Concerned with the fact that it was over and yet everything was still in motion, the majority of their team unconscious and hurt. Concerned with the fact that they had been fragmented and now was left unwhole, every single one of them hurt.

Before closing the ambulance doors and driving off, Provenza had gotten Feldman to ensure that Buzz's body was driven to the morgue, someone accompanying the body. He would have followed Buzz himself but the paramedic would not let him go, telling him it was important he came with them to the hospital, talking about shock and blood loss, surgery for his muscles.

The little boy still looked pale but the medic said he was stable for the moment.

Provenza had left Sykes and Flynn back at the mansion. They would catch a ride with the feds and SWAT back, help process the scene further. The only two left who was able to stand up physically; Provenza was unsure about Flynn though. Flynn seemed too unstable to Provenza to merely leave him behind but Flynn had assured him he was fine, his eyes dark and his mouth a firm line. There had been something hard about his partner's expression and Provenza had understood him, the feeling of pain in his heart that needed to be quenched till everything was finally over. Flynn had patted him on the shoulder before the ambulance had driven away and then Provenza had watched Flynn walk away from the ambulance, going in the direction of Feldman and his team, his face shrouded in obscurity.

Provenza knew his friend was hanging on by a thread, the hand on his shoulder with a slight tremor. But he had kept quiet; sometimes you needed motion and action to dwell your thoughts on when something like this happened. Staying behind would eventually calm Flynn down, he hoped. Not that any of them would feel calm anytime in the near future, he thought sourly. No, this was going to haunt them for a long time.

Amy had given him a brief smile, whispering she would look after Flynn before she followed Flynn to Feldman. It had calmed Provenza down somewhat. She seemed the calmest of the lot; her gait sure and her eyes present. Not that she wasn't exhausted like the rest of them or did not have a slightly haunted look to her skin; but no she seemed to be able to differentiate between her emotions better than the rest of them.

…


	10. Aftermath

_A/N:_ Sorry for the delay in posting the last chapter but I was suddenly busy with UNI and then the weather decided to be wonderful and sunny and it was too tempting to lie outside in the sun doing nothing. =)

**EPILOGUE; AFTERMATH.**

…

The palm of her hand itched. She tried to ignore it like she had done in the last week, the pink new skin prickling; the crust had finally fallen off on both sides of her hand. A neurologist had checked her through when she had finally arrived at the hospital nine days ago; Amy had been more intent on finding out where her team members were than having her wound checked. It was only when she realized the majority was still in surgery, only when she needed a little space from Flynn pacing back and forth like a caged tiger in the waiting room that she had sought out a doctor.

A MR-scan showed soft tissue damage and some minor nerve irritation. It tingled every now and then but she had full use of her fingers and her bones were unharmed. Sanchez was worse off, the nail had hit a nerve and he was having problems with sensibility in half of his hand. The doctors said the nerves would eventually be back to normal but that she should expect some residual effects. The tingling and the itching, why that would disappear the moment the wounds disappeared on both sides of her hand. It still itched though; reminding her of what had happened.

She was well on the outside, physical there was barely a bruise. Still, she had felt it yesterday. A week of riding on a high wave of adrenaline and she suddenly fell into the down surge. Energy was sapped from her, restlessness sank its teeth into her and she succumbed to exhaustion. She felt emotionally unstable and yet she felt far more put together than the rest of her team; it was the same that had happened to her every time she had come home from patrol or when she had returned to the states after her deployment.

Amy rolled her window down, her car slowly turning into Sanchez's street. She was picking him up for the funeral. Technically he was not allowed to drive yet with his shoulder but he had still insisted he could drive himself to the church. It had taken the whole of yesterday to convince him otherwise; not that Amy had minded. She understood him only too well. It was however, important that his shoulder got rest; that and she needed company even if it would be silent company.

She watched him get out of his front door just as she pulled up to his house, his suit sleek and black. His jacket hung on his shoulders, his arm in a sling underneath. He came down the steps, a hard expression on his face that bordered on repressed sadness when she watched him up close. He got in beside her, a small greeting.

She drove into traffic, the way to the church clear in her head.

She watched him out of the corner of her eyes, his face a grimace, a mix between pain and grief. He looked better though, his skin tone healthier than the many days she had visited him in the hospital. His hair washed and combed; the scent of aftershave and not blood and sweat.

"How's your shoulder?" she asked him, overtaking a car, her eyes on the road.

"Hmm," he grunted.

Sanchez never spoke much when he was like this; he had been like this yesterday as well. Amy's father had been the same, not one to use words unnecessarily. Like her father Sanchez would rather just keep quiet. She gave him a nod and then continued driving in silence. She did not mind the silence after all.

After a small beat of silence, traffic heavy, she felt him pat her knee. The touch was subtle and brief but there. She turned her head and found his eyes on her before he once again dwelled into silence and staring ahead into traffic.

They were all slightly broken. The whole ordeal had lefts its traces; invisible and visible – on skin and beneath. Not that she had any doubt that they would heal; mend till everything felt relatively whole again. It would take time though; it always did.

Her hand itched, Sanchez was silent and she thought about that one time Buzz had invited her out for beer along with Sanchez; that one time when they had gone beyond tipsy and had danced till four in the morning. She had made the two boys breakfast the day after, which had turned to a late lunch instead. Full with hangovers and silly teasing about the night before. Now, it was long gone and yet it had been a wonderful night. She needed to remember those times; she needed to bring other memories forth to take over the ones of horror that were still vivid.

Her eyes itched now.

She loved them all dearly; a fact that had both surprised her and yet hadn't. Combat created strings of intimacy, friendship when you fought side by side. This was no different. No, they were her family, just without the DNA.

_There was something almost tranquil about lying in a bed, covered by a sheet. Tranquility however, left the moment he became fully aware of his body. God, it creaked and groaned with pain. Muscles stretching and tingling, complaining. _

_Julio knew he was in the hospital before he opened his eyes. The same groggy feeling resided beneath his eyelids that had permeated his perception back at the mansion. Drugs – anesthesia, he thought. He's body felt heavy in a way he was not used to, pushed into the mattress by fatigue._

_He opened his eyes and to his surprise he woke up to a smiling Sykes looking at him, her eyes brown and warm. She looked happy to see him, the smile sad yet vibrant. He smiled back, his mouth moving of its own accord. God, he was glad to see her alive and well. Everything had been a mess the last time he had been conscious. _

"_You want some water?" she asked when he tried to sit up but ended up coughing instead, lying back down._

_Sanchez nodded and she went and poured water into a glass. She helped him sit upright, putting pillows behind his back. Everything strained around his wound, pulled at the sutures in his shoulder. He gritted his teeth at the pain, wondering whether the strange feeling in his skin would ever recede. _

"_You alright?"_

_Her voice was gentle and yet he detected her slight worry. He nodded in answer and then took the proffered water glass. He downed the whole glass, asking for another fill. God, he was thirsty, lips dry and his throat felt parched. _

_Sanchez looked around the room, three beds beside his own. One bed was empty, one was occupied by someone sleeping and the last, next to his own, was empty as well but looked slept in, the sheets haphazardly at the foot of the bed. _

_Amy came back with the glass filled again; she saw the way he looked. "Provenza's out in the hallway trying to walk with his crutches. He walks like a duck."_

"_Crutches?" his voice was raspy, his mouth dry. He needed to know everything; he had been unconscious for far too long. He knew practically nothing about what had happened. It was almost overwhelming, he thought, to wake up suddenly and then find that everything had been resolved in some fashion without his knowledge. What had happened? How had he ended up in a hospital when the last thing he remembered was being shot and dragged to a bush?_

_Amy sat down in the chair again, scooting it close to his bedside, "Provenza got shot in his leg. He was lucky the bullet missed anything important. The doctors sewed him up in the ER. But he grows restless and walks about quite a bit, with his crutches."_

"_Oh. But he's alright?"_

_She nodded, her hands tinkering with the edge of his bed linen._

_Sanchez wondered how bad it was; why she suddenly avoided his eyes._

"_You saved me," he said to her and she looked up, her eyes wide again._

"_Always," she paused to smile, "gotta keep you out of trouble."_

_He chuckled, and then coughed._

"_And how is everyone?"_

_Her smile faded. _

…

Mike twisted on the church bench, trying to find a place to sit comfortably, an angle that did not disagree with his body. The bench was too hard, the air too humid – his leg itched and throbbed, complaining about pain killers slowly weaning off.

Mike had trouble with sitting still after his surgery, had trouble with moving as well. It was a big contradiction, his body tired and hurting whether he was moving or lying down. There was a component of restlessness to the pain, the feeling overcoming him and his muscles seemed to protest against the notion of remaining motionless for long. He had been discharged from the hospital yesterday; the doctors had wanted his blood panels to stabilize before they sent him home. Surgery had taken an inordinate long time, his doctors had told him, explaining the complications of loss of blood. Hypovolemic shock, he thought, the words still seeming foreign to him. Mike had awoken from surgery to find he was the last to wake up, Provenza already walking around even if it resembled limping. Whereas Provenza's wound had been more superficial, Mike's had been in a more crucial place, more profound and accompanied with an extensive blood loss.

Provenza sat in the row in front of Mike and his family, Sykes and Sanchez with him. There was a tense feeling to the church, sadness in the warmth of air. Mike had been fortunate in some ways and yet in others he was not so sure. His muscles were a mess. Mike knew it would months of physical therapy before his body would be back to normal. No, he was lucky he told himself; all he had acquired was some minor sensibility loss and muscle atrophy. It was nothing, really. No, he was more disturbed by what went on inside his head instead. Maybe it was the loss of blood that had wrecked with his brain, maybe it was the sheer exhaustion of the whole ordeal or maybe it was the terror they had all been under but he felt so tired. So tired, sleep was all he did.

Kevin gave him a worried look but he gave a brief smile to allay his son's fears. He was fine. Well as fine as someone could be with a long road of recovery ahead, with the nightly terrors that still came and wrecked with his nights, with attending the funeral of a dear colleague – a friend. The therapist said it was normal, the doctors said the same. Sanchez had even told him in confidence that he had nightmares as well; it did not really calm Mike down.

His wife pulled his hand to her, squeezing.

He tried to breathe slowly, a thing the therapist had told him would help.

The sun shone outside and it was a hot day. His skin was flushed he thought, his eyes raw on the brink of letting water slip. The muscles of his jaw seemed tense. It could have been Mike himself that lay in the coffin; it had been so close. It was still strangely vague and as if it had happened in a dream; yet it felt like it had happened a mere hour ago. Mike still remembered the feeling of letting go, the feeling of fading out in the sun on the ground outside the mansion. Maybe that was the reason he felt disconnected; he had been on the brink of death and the feeling still lingered inside.

Death had never been this vivid, he thought. It had never been this complicated and filled with such ambiguity.

_There was a certain atmosphere about a hospital that differed very much all dependent on whether you were a patient or simply visiting. Provenza found the ward a flurry of motion, a ruckus of voices and people hurrying back and forth. Nurses coming and going, in between a doctor or two – beepers and residents calling amidst everything. Provenza was stuck in a ward with four beds, only three occupied. It felt slightly chaotic to him; on the point of stressful. _

_Sanchez lay to his left, sleeping for now. _

_Pain was something he could not comprehend yet, dormant and yet to make its appearance. Sykes had been in the room an hour ago, sitting in a chair besides the two beds Provenza and Sanchez lay in, her eyes flickering between the two but lingering on Sanchez. _

_She had smiled too widely when Provenza had wakened, instantly on her feet and giving him a glass of water. _

_It was strange to be lying in a hospital bed. His leg was torn up, muscles had been repaired and the skin sewn close with sutures. The wound on his temple had only required three sutures and he was doped up with a mixture of antibiotics and analgesia. The doctors insisting that he needed rest; so Provenza had made sure they put him in a room with one of his colleagues. That way he could keep an eye on one of them. _

_Sykes came back now, Rusty in tow._

"_Hey kid," Provenza croaked to the boy._

"_Hey," Rusty greeted back, his voice low and shaky. The kid sat down in another chair close to Provenza's bed, his hands around a Styrofoam cup of coffee. _

_The kid seemed tired, Provenza thought._

"_Sharon awake?" Provenza asked._

_Rusty nodded, "Yeah for a short while. She's keeps falling asleep though, waking up and then dosing off."_

"_It's the surgery," Sykes said, a hand on the boy's shoulder, "Rather normal behavior. Plus she's got a concussion, the doctors said to expect her to be a bit woozy the first times she wakes up. She'll be fine."_

_Rusty looked up at her and gave a slow nod. That would be the thing that bothered the kid. The fact that Sharon was not herself, drugged up and vulnerable. They had all been close to death; it was bound to cause fear to arise. The kid was just short of panic; that was clear. It was a retreating panic though, Provenza acknowledged, the first time he had laid eyes on the boy Flynn had been trying to calm him down. That had been when Sharon had still been in surgery, hours ago. _

_Sykes sat down in her chair again, her eyes on Sanchez before she looked at Provenza and Rusty._

_Sykes had kept him apprised of everything and everyone. The girl was efficient and pulled information out of the doctors so they knew who was in surgery and what had happened to them. Provenza felt proud of her; she was taking care of them all, even managing to smile. There was something tough yet gentle about her, the balance of the two very opposite components in concord. _

_Feldman had come into the room an hour earlier, just as Sykes had left. They had managed to identify the man. The name had seemed weakly familiar to Provenza; he had almost felt anger at himself for not remembering more about the name and the case that linked him to the bastard. Feldman had told him Provenza had investigated the death of a waitress and had arrested a man thirty years ago. _

_Apparently Provenza had arrested the bastard's father a long time ago. The mother had been a junkie, Feldman had told him, overdosed shortly after the arrest. The father had died in prison, a brutal attack. The boy had been tossed between foster homes and juvenile detention centers as he grew up. The bastard had recently gone through a divorce and lost the custody of his children. The trigger, Feldman had told him. _

_It was strange but knowing all this did not feel like Provenza had thought it would._

_He still felt weirdly guilty; not about the bastard. No, guilty that everything that had happened to his friends was ultimately because of him. _

_Rusty looked into space, Provenza watched the kid, feeling sorrow even more vividly. Buzz had liked the kid. He tried to keep his own tears at bay. They might all be safe now but it was still a mess._

…

His world was aflame in a headache. His muscles tense with sorrow and anger, a mix he understood but did not welcome. There was nothing to do about that but clench his jaw. It was exhaustion, mentally and physically; sheer fatigue that would render him completely comatose when everything was over and he could just sleep. Not that he was sure sleep would be a thing to prefer; sleep would only pave the way for nightmares to take over. The reason he had only slept fitfully since being rescued, the hospital not helping him with calming down.

Andy had been too anxious to sleep, too afraid that something disastrous would happen if he closed his eyes completely. He had dosed in a chair in a hospital room but it had not been a deep sleep. Superficial sleep at best.

The church felt stuffy, the heat from outside even worse inside. It felt like an oven, sweltering and the air so stationary he felt he could hardly breathe. His tie felt too tight, his back drenched through with sweat making his shirt and jacket cling to his skin.

Andy was fidgeting on the bench, his hands clasped together one moment, the next he grasped the wood of the bench beneath him. He felt restless. Maybe it was the fact that Sharon sat next to him and yet it felt as if she was miles away. Rusty sat next to her, his hand around hers; the two of them close in their grief. The kid had been frantic when Andy had called him from the hospital; a uniform had driven Rusty to the hospital and Andy remembered the anger and then fear that had gripped the kid. None of them had known a thing; Sharon had still been in surgery. It had been a small reprieve; Andy had been able to concentrate on Rusty and calming the kid down. There had been no room for being frantic himself. He had felt strangely cold, strangely removed from his feelings.

He fidgeted again in his seat. Everything still felt so absurd. As if he was still trapped somewhere in a nightmare; unable to escape.

The preacher said something, the words not really registering. Instead he thought about Buzz.

He twitched in his seat again, crossed one ankle over the other.

Sharon turned slightly in her seat, most likely sensing his unease.

It happened briefly and subtly then; Andy turned his head and tried to catch her eyes but she still looked ahead, her face pale yet impassive. Still, her fingers travelled along the back of his hand and then grasped, holding his hand briefly before she returned her hand to her lap.

She could probably feel the nervous, angry energy that he exuded.

The touch, it calmed him down somewhat.

It amazed him and yet it was no surprise.

It was a uniqueness she beheld, the ability to soothe him. One of the many reasons that the thought of losing her still brought forth a bad taste in his mouth.

He sneaked his hand into hers, joining the hand in her lap. She blinked but otherwise she stayed still. Whereas he twitched she sat perfectly still. The warmth of her hand was reassuring and she did not let go. No one would see them and Rusty would not mind.

He needed some form of touch.

_Sharon woke up, the mattress beneath her soft, a blanket thrown across her warm. The pounding in her head was dull, an ache that was small but persistent. It was better than the splitting pounding she vaguely remembered. Her abdomen felt strangely painful, as if something had torn her skin apart, her insides in disapproval. _

_For a brief moment she panicked, her body heavy and almost lethargic, her eyes still not able to put the room into focus. For a brief second she had no idea where she was; for a brief horrifying moment she thought she heard a whisper of someone saying 'little captain'. _

_She blinked and the hospital room came into her vision, relief flooding her. Her room was silent. It calmed her down._

_She remembered Rusty suddenly, remembered having been awake before now a doctor telling her something, Rusty hanging onto her hand. She could not remember the specifics of it however. She had a notion there was something she was missing, something evading her grasp. The room was dark now she noted, even if the curtains were drawn. It was night outside, streetlights painting the darkness with a certain orange hue. _

_She turned her head, the dull ache behind her eyes shifting. _

_Andy was slumped on the chair next to her bed, his head drooping down onto his chest, his long legs stretched out and an arm resting on the edge of her mattress. _

_She noticed the lights outside the window into a hospital ward, bright and artificial, casting shadows into the darkness of her hospital room._

_He looked gaunt, his skin tone pale and greyish. He looked tense, she thought, stressed and exhausted. There was something vulnerable about him that settled under her ribcage, attached itself to her heart. She wanted to reach out and caress his cheek, hold his hand. Tell him everything was fine now. Only, she had no clue. Her memory was hazy and she had no idea whether everything was fine now. _

_When she sat up the muscles of her abdomen protested angrily, sutures tingling. The world spun but in a less frightening perspective than back at the mansion; why she hardly felt faint. Maybe just a bit disoriented. There was a drip in her hand, the tube following the motion of her hand when she moved it to her stomach. Trying to calm down the pain. _

"_Hey," a voice surprised her, and she turned to find her lieutenant awake. His eyes dark and focused on her. _

"_Hey," she replied, not recognizing her own voice. It sounded raw, barely a whisper._

"_Hey," he repeated, this time a small smile at the corner of his lips. It turned his whole face from gaunt to practically healthy. She could still see the tired lines around his mouth, around his eyes but that small smile it warmed. _

_She winced when she moved, trying to turn towards him._

"_You don't need to move," he scooted his chair closer, a hand along her underarm. "I'll get a doctor," he quickly said, about to stand._

"_No, I'm alright," she blinked and inhaled deeply, "Just stay here a bit."_

"_Okay."_

_His hand went further down, across her wrist till he grasped her hand. He still looked tense, she thought, the emotion poignant in his eyes. _

"_Andy, I don't remember much. I remember the doctor told me something, but I can't remember what exactly."_

"_You're going to be fine," he told her, his fingers now in between her own, "You are out of surgery and they expect full recovery. You have a concussion so that might bother you for a while."_

_He paused, then "They had to remove your spleen though. You lost a lot of blood so they are keeping you here for some time, till they've replaced everything you've lost. You're hooked up to plenty," he nodded in the direction of the drugs and fluids that flowed into her veins._

"_Morphine, antibiotics, you name it. It's a regular party."_

_His voice was rough but she smiled at the undertone of warmth._

"_Spleen?" she questioned, trying to remember back to biology. _

"_Nothing to worry about. You'll be more predisposed to some bacterial infections but hey," he squeezed her hand again, "That's nothing to worry about now."_

_She sighed, nodded and looked to the ceiling._

"_What happened after I was shot? How are everyone? I haven't a clue about anything."_

_He sighed, the hand not holding hers running through his hair._

"_Mike's still in surgery last I checked. Sanchez is just out of surgery, stable, in a bed next to Provenza, who's going to be fine as well. Sykes is fine too," he told her._

_She nodded, trying to keep up. "The boy? I found Damien. Is he alright?"_

_He nodded, "The kid's in ICU, his parents are with him. The drugs have been in his system a long time, suppressed his respiratory center. But the doctors are positive about his situation, Sykes told me."_

_She nodded, not sure how to feel, relieved yet strangely edgy. _

_Sharon caught Andy's eyes then; noting the apprehension in the depths. She tried to think, there was something she was missing. Something she could not put her finger on. _

"_Are you thirsty?" he asked her._

"_Buzz? Did we find Buzz?"_

_He sighed, "Buzz's dead, Sharon. He was dead from the beginning. I'm sorry."_

_She looked down, her eyes on the white of her hospital gown, the sheet that half covered her. She did not understand. It did not sound right inside her head. It could not be possible. _

_She looked up again, her eyes already wet, "I don't understand."_

"_I don't either," he whispered back, sitting stock still, his hand with a slight tremor around hers, squeezing tight._

_Sweet, wonderful Buzz she thought. Always there to help, always there to rely on. A civilian – not even an officer; it was wrong. He should have not been pulled into the whole mess. She wondered if Rusty knew; they had after all become friendly, playing chess when Rusty was waiting for her to finish paperwork at the office. _

_Andy squeezed her hand again, his thumb going over her knuckles. _

"_I thought you were dead. For a moment you looked dead when they carried you out of the house," he whispered, his voice rough, and she wondered if he was broken inside, if that was the reason he sat motionless like a statue, eyes far away, his mouth a firm line and yet such a fragile look to him._

_She pulled at his hand, trying to bring him into a hug and he moved along with the motion. It was difficult and awkward, the tube to the drip in the way, pain flaring at the movement and yet he somehow managed to bring his arms around her, halfway onto her bed, his head next to hers. She could feel the tip of his lips against her neck, the small gust of air as he breathed._

_She turned her head, pain momentarily too much inside her head but then she relaxed, her mouth to his cheek. Lips hit skin and it was not really a kiss, more a long imprint to settle herself, to soothe him. Her heart was beating rapidly, his touch warm and tingly. _

_In the end she felt him pull her closer, tucking her head further into his, his hands warm on her back, on her neck. She thought she cried but she was not sure; maybe he was the one crying. They remained still for a long time, breathing and taking comfort from the warmth of the embrace, the darkness of the room not confining but comforting._

…

THE END

A big heartfelt thank you to all you amazing readers and all the wonderful feedback. I hope you've enjoyed this despite the horror and grueling aspects. / Iso


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